New York - It seems Salieri's Falstaff holds the stage quite well in its modest way: certainly La Societa dell'Opera Buffa made a strong case for the opera at BAM on April 22. The libretto by Carlo Prospero di Franceschi is literate and well plotted, including a third prank on Falstaff (he's forced to escape in drag), but omitting the Fenton-Nanetta subplot. 

Myeoung Hee Lee (Mrs. Ford) was the standout performer; her vocal highlight was the "Tedesca" aria, all the more funny for being sung "straight," with only the twinkle of an eye to indicate the character's amusement. Ms. Lee's charm, wit, and stage presence struck me as somehow familiar: then, at intermission, I read that she is a pupil of Renata Scotto! As Falstaff, Romano Franceschetto's physical panache and expressive Italian diction compensated somewhat for a tiny voice. The other singers were of solid student level; Luca Dordalo was not quite up to Mr. Ford's several flights of bravura.

Beni Montresor got off on the wrong foot by staging the overture; later, his staqe movement was hyperactive enought to tire Cecilia Bartoli. He was more successful in his designs for costumes and especially the set (a plain white box bathed in jewel-toned light). The relatively calm Windsor Park scene really breathed midsummer magic. Alberto Veronesi and the Orchestra Guido Cantelli sounded like born animals of the stage, accompanying the youthful cast crisply.

Patricia Racette as Emmeline gave an extraordinary performance. She managed the transition from naïve teenager to withdrawn, bitter adult without resorting to cliché. Her singing had passion, intensity, power. The audience gave her a tumultuous standing ovation at her curtain call and she was visibly moved. Why exactly is she not appearing at the Met next season? The other roles were all well cast. Curt Peterson also impressed in his debut as Matthew Gurney. He had a promising lyric tenor voice, which he did not overwork even when the scoring got heavy. George Manahan conducted this tough score with obvious commitment, trying his best to assure that the dense orchestration did not swamp the singers.

Francesca Zambello's production was effective, but it suffered from an overall air of didacticism and the usual "Zambellishments" (an oversized cross crashing through the set, female "stagehands" in period costume pushing around scenery during the changes, a large gaping hole in the middle of the stage that served as an effective space for factory scenes and an awkward impediment otherwise). I felt lectured to as I usually do after one of her productions. Although she was in town, Zambello did not appear during curtain calls. Did L'Affaire Wilson scare her off?

I was pleasantly surprised by the performance of Samson et Dalila on March 4. There has already been a wealth of commentary on the new Elijah Moshinsky-Richard Hudson collaboration, so I see no need to be repetitive by offering a detailed description of the production. I will say that I admired the simplicity of the visual elements. Although Saint-Saens' score is more evocative of ancient Babylon than Botswana, the tribal imagery did nothing blatantly to contradict the music. Given the choice between Zeffirelli-style kitsch and a visually austere concept, I'll take this kind of approach anytime. What the production lacked in terms of realistic detail, it made up for in the use of color--particularly the generous application of rich earth tones. My one major reservation about this show is that the final destruction of the temple looks cheesy. A central pillar splits apart but does not tumble: no debris, no chaos, not even the illusion of sudden disaster. It doesn't work and I hope the Met can figure out a way to restage this critical denouement.

Musically, the performance was quite strong. Placido Domingo was in astonishingly youthful form as Samson. There was nothing terribly distinctive about either his acting or interpretation but the voice worked like a dream: firm, ringing and utterly confident in the higher-lying portions of the role. Sergei Leiferkus' raspy baritone is all wrong for French music but he radiated demonic energy and purpose as the High Priest. Alan Held did what he could with the thankless role of Abimelech, but Paul Plishka brought quiet dignity and command to his portrayal of the Old Hebrew. Leonard Slatkin drew committed playing from the orchestra but a sense of inertia set in at various points throughout the evening, exaggerating the already staid character of the piece.

The evening was primarily about Denyce Graves. She was in much better voice here than in the broadcast. Her phrasing was notable for its long-breathed eloquence and poise, while the bronze and caramel qualities of her voice sounded as attractive as ever. Graves still lunges at the high notes and I wish she was able to achieve a better blending of the registers but her singing was never less than convincing. Her portrayal, on the other hand, is breathtaking and really needs to be experienced in the house for its full impact to register.

Graves is just about the most voluptuous female singer to grace the Met stage. Stunningly garbed in a series of clinging silk gowns, she was a vision. But it was the way her intense dedication to the dramatic situation enhanced her natural physical endowments that made this Dalila so special. Graves radiated joy and tender longing in Samson's presence. Her dance with the Philistine maidens in Act One was perfection: the liberation through movement of spiritual and sensual impulses stimulated by the arrival of springtime. The choreography here owed more than a little to Motown but I loved the incredible conviction Graves brought to it. Moshinsky has created a unique conception of the role for Graves and it remains to be seen how other mezzo-sopranos will adapt themselves to the staging. Nevertheless, Graves exuded star quality and I sincerely hope the Met can find her other work besides endless repetitions of Carmen.

The final Hoffmann performance of the season on March 6 was cause for celebration--although for reasons other than you might expect. It appears that this might be Simone Young's addio to the Met and the break comes not a moment too soon. The orchestra made all manner of mistakes and miscued entrances, and the ensemble in the Venetian scene was an indescribable mess, with orchestra, chorus and solists all going their separate and cacophonous way. In spite of La Maestra, the opera showcased some truly thrilling singing. Richard Leech was the very picture of a youthful romantic hero and he sang like a god. He currently owns the easiest tenor high notes in the business. Considering all the old chestnuts regarding the size limitations of her voice, Sumi Jo produced a quite audible stream of sound. Despite some thinning tone on the very highest notes, the basic timbre remains deliciously sweet and she attacked Olympia's music fearlessly. Jo's portrayal of the unpredictable doll was witty, charming and endearing.

Suzanne Mentzer's Nicklausse/Muse was stylishly sung, if a little hyperactive in movement. Still, her elegant musicianship made a compelling reason for hearing the new material added for the dual characters. James Morris was a curiously unamusing Coppelius but his Miracle had charisma aplenty. Unfortunately, the aged-wood quality of his singing robbed Dappertutto's aria of fascination. As the four servants, Pierre Lefebvre's Gerhard Stolze imitation was not received with pleasure. Victoria Livengood was a strikingly tall Giulietta but her lyric mezzo-soprano was sorely taxed by the tessitura of the role.

Patricia Racette is a diva with a major future ahead of her. As Antonia, she flooded the house with gorgeous, shimmering tone. The phrasing was heartfelt, expressive and remarkable for its generosity of spirit. Her acting managed to reconcile both the grandeur and fragility inherent in the role. Everything she did communicated an artistry of the highest order. I was quite overcome by the beauty of her performance and unleashed a fair number of "bravas" at the exciting conclusion of the trio. When I hear an artist for the first time that stirs my soul this way, I know that Great Operatic Singing is not quite dead.

In between the Samson and Hoffmann performances, we entered the bowels of the Metropolitan Opera for an extended tour of the backstage area. As La Cieca has already reported, next season's Nozze di Figaro set features off-white walls with crumbling paint. Did anyone at the company bother to show Jonathan Miller and his production team Monsieur Ponnelle's discarded designs?

We returned to our accustomed places "out front" for the matinee of Madama Butterfly on March 7. I have no idea what kind of impression she conveyed on the broadcast, but in the house she delivered the most emotionally truthful performance of the entire week. Malfitano was announced as singing over a sinus infection and she found certain moments of the taxing role rough going vocally. But it was the interpretation that was remarkable. Malfitano brought an unusual mystique to the part of the victimized geisha. She exuded an almost siren-like aura in the first act, a sort of sexual energy that adds dimension and depth to the character. As Pinkerton praised her beauty in the love duet, she swayed subtly in the moonlight, suggesting a well-practiced dance for the pleasure of men. Malfitano also made Cio-Cio-San's devotion to Pinkerton wholly understandable. At the point when Pinkerton consoles Butterfly after the Bonze's denunciation, Malfitano looked at him dumbfounded. The impact of his caring words struck home and we saw revealed in all her moving frailty the emotionally deprived adolescent who longs for empathic attunement and nurturance. And for the record, she looked fabulous, moved well and in every way suggested a youthful, girlish heroine. Malfitano wears her fifty years very well indeed.

Franco Farina will never be luxury casting but he sang honestly and with feeling as Pinkerton. There were several moments when he attempted to do some sensitive things with dynamics and I appreciated his effort. Lefebvre yowled his way through Goro's scenes but Alan Opie suffused Sharpless with an urbane sensitivity. Wendy White simply is Suzuki. When Malfitano sighted the Abramo Lincoln sailing into port, the mezzo's tearful response was almost as devastating as her mistress' elation. Carlo Rizzi's supportive conducting sustained the ailing Malfitano through a long afternoon and the orchestra covered itself with glory in the long interlude between Acts Two and Three.

The curious might be interested to know that almost all of the original Del Monaco "touches" have been excised from the production: gone are the parasol with the mosquito netting, the Suzuki-Goro mime scene during "Che tua madre," Goro's slapstick fall into the stream, and Suzuki's nap on the lawn. Most important, Butterfly does not fly crashing through the shoji after her suicide. Instead, Malfitano laid her wedding kimono on the porch, stabbed herself facing upstage, her head falling forward. When Pinkerton rushes in crying Butterfly's name, Farina touched Malfitano's shoulder and her body slumped to the ground. If Malfitano was somehow responsible for these many improvements, she has every right to feel vindicated after the directorial atrocities foisted upon her by Del Monaco when this production opened four years ago.

Speaking of directorial atrocities, I wish to preface my comments about the Robert Wilson staging of Lohengrin by stating that I pay far too much money for my opera tickets to have any investment in hating a production before I see it. I genuinely hoped it would be a fantastic experience. But it wasn't. It was simply a loathsome variation on the Emperor's New Clothes fable. Fortunately, the majority of the audience didn't buy it and responded to Wilson's curtain call with intense booing. And make no mistake about it: I am talking about hundreds of Met patrons, not a few "organized" cranks.

Of the many failures of this production, its main offense is that it completely suppresses the individuality of the performers. No one interacts here: there is no touching, no intimacy, no genuine feeling of any kind allowed. The singers seldom even look at one another. Worst of all, the cast is limited to one or two traffic cop gestures that they repeat ad nauseum throughout the performance. Nothing visually distinguishes Deborah Voigt's portrayal of Elsa from any other soprano who might be contracted for this production. It could be Karita Mattila,l or Cheryl Studer, or Iris Adami Coradetti, for that matter. How ironic that Leonie Rysanek, an inspired bacchante of the operatic stage, should have this singer-hostile production dedicated to her memory!

The production settles for being perplexing when it isn't outright laughable. Large white panels descend from the skies anytime divine intervention plays a part in the proceedings. A long black platform with an ice cream parlor chair carries Elsa on stage for her "Euch lüften" scene. At the end of Act Two, Ortrud drags a blood-red drape from stage left to signify her corrosive influence on Elsa's belief in Lohengrin. Indeed, Ortrud is the central figure in this production, camping her way through the proceedings like a bad Norma Desmond parody. At the conclusion of the opera, Deborah Polaksi is left onstage winding Telramund's shroud around her arm like a sling, twisting her already over-the-top facial expression into an outrageous contortion.

In the hands of Wieland Wagner, Patrice Chereau or Harry Kupfer, Wagner's operas have managed to communicate in a daring dramatic language that is rooted in the traditions of the piece. This staging did nothing but convey Wilson's complete distrust in and disregard for the composer's intentions, and, perhaps, his overweening love for his own cleverness. When a stage director turns the lights out on the singers's faces during an important ensemble and illuminates nothing but their outstretched hands, signs of the Apocalpyse are appearing.

Musically, the show operated on a much higher plane. Deborah Voigt mustered as much vocal radiance as her straightjacketed movements would allow. Deborah Polaski has a fair amount of late-Varnay squall and sourness in her large voice but the musicianship was superb. Ben Heppner began badly with a lot of flat, out-of-tune singing but improved as the performance progressed. There were stretches of gleaming, evenly produced tone but the overall effect was one of cautious reserve. Hans-Joachim Ketelsen sang with healthy reserves of youthful sound, a rarity in the bark-and-howl role of Telramund. Eike Wilm Schulte displayed a cultivated, polished baritone in the utterances of the Herald. He deserved a better monarch than Eric Halfvarson, whose booming voice is undermined by a pervasive wobble.

James Levine was his customary self on the podium. No other opera orchestra in the world can hope to render up this kind of exquisitely refined playing when he is in the Met pit, but the tempi were like molasses: Levine seemed to be reveling in sound for sound's sake with no real regard for the dramatic momentum of the opera. Despite all his protestations to the contrary, Levine appears to have said all there is to say in his current Met position and may soon find him renewing his artistic soul in another part of the world.

Well, that wraps up my report on Enzo's Met marathon for this season. I'm already planning further excursions to New York next season for the Millo Tosca, Khovanshchina, Pique Dame, the Futral Lucia, Katya Kabanova, and a few other goodies. But, as for Lohengrin, "Fahr heim, Bob Wilson, fahr heim!"

Richard Troxell as Prunier might also be described as pretty, though here the adjective stops short before the voice, which was -- as has been noted-- strictly Goro material. This candidate for Bear magazine camped it up rather fetchingly until he had to go and spoil the Noël Cowardish effect by making unconvincing love to Inva Mula's spunky-spiky Lisette. (I mean, come on, a guy giving fashion tips to his date and we're supposed to think he's straight? If Marta Domingo had wanted to introduce some really useful innovation she might have cast Lisette as a houseboy rather than a maid; that way the tired schtick of filching Madame's frock for a night on the town would have gained considerable theatrical oomph). William Parcher's incisive and vocally pungent Rambaldo was one sugar daddy I wouldn't mind licking. I'll certainly take him over Marcus Haddock's doughy fratboy Ruggero any day.

Conductor Emmanuel Villaume knows when to make the music sing and when to make it dance, which is just about the best advocacy this show can get. But what an infuriating piece Rondine is! Dramaturgical tropes appear from Traviata, Manon, and Fledermaus, each one, in turn, paling in comparison to its model. Just when you're ready to dismiss it all as uninspired twaddle, Puccini will come up with an insightful dramatic underpinning or a surge of really gorgeous melody. Pathos yields to bathos as the opera droops inertly to its conclusion after a promising Act One. In this sense, at least, Marta Domingo's treatment of the heroine's fate was the perfect analogy: as an opera, this swallow doesn't fly, it takes the flying leap and sinks.

Also on the boards at the Ken Cen was a reprise of the Jean Pierre Ponnelle Don Giovanni first mounted here in 1985 as a co-production with the Orchestre de Paris. (The Washington Opera never originates anything that they can share, rent, or borrow. I'd call it a "curatorial vision" except there's so little consistency in the quality of the bookings.) Though some of the components were weak, the sum was a well-paced, emotionally engaging traversal of the old score. That result is largely to the credit of Maestro Heinz Fricke, who -- as in last year's Brahmsian Elektra -- displayed the increasingly rare gift of conducting in whole paragraphs rather than in truncated phrases. Dwayne Croft was a hyperkinetic, sinister, thrusting presence as Don G. While the face sneered, the voice caressed (Thomas Hampson, please take note). But this preening electric eel was too self-consciously predatory to be the least bit seductive. It was fun to have brother Richard as Don O: Donna Anna's Doppelgänger Dilemma. Of the ladies, let's just say that Hei Kyung Hong as Zerlina towered talent-wise over the two Donnas, and -- solid artist though she be -- I don't tend to think of Hong as the towering type.

Then came the east coast premiere of The Dangerous Liaisons (why the "The"? Just so people don't confuse it with the movie? Without Keanu Reeves there's not much of a chance). Words that come to mind in contemplating this performance are "professional," "well-crafted," and "calculated." Words that do not come to mind are "passionate," "inspired," and "affecting." I do give composer Conrad Susa and librettist Philip Littell credit for their audacity in laying bare the opera's origins in an epistolary novel. With letter-reading and writing remaining at the core of their adaptation, it's as though they've said "If a letter scene is good for Eugene Onegin, a whole letter opera will be great for us!" When it works, as when Valmont brushes off Madame de Tourvel by repeating almost verbatim the text of Madame de Merteuil's letter, it works brilliantly. When it doesn't the opera seems overlong, cerebral, and talky.

The production was the same Colin Graham/Gerard Howland affair telecast from the 1994 world premiere in San Francisco. Vivid, often ingenious, it is nonetheless a strangely priggish show -- nobody seems to be having any fun at all. With Elisabeth Bishop, Dale Duesing, and Susan Patterson replacing the original Frederica von Stade, Thomas Hampson, and Renee Fleming in the leads, another word that did not come to mind was "star-quality." With considerable stage savvy and more chesty vocal heft than her predecessor, Ms. Bishop nonetheless failed to render the juicy thrill of sweet corruption that made Von Stade so memorable in the telecast .One can't help wondering if the role itself is wanting. Maybe the zing in Von Stade's portrayal was just the theatrical frisson of seeing our friend Flicka -- after years of Cinderellas, sob sisters, and randy boys -- finally get in touch with her inner bitch.

In inspiring partnership with her conductor/pianist husband Klaus Donath, Helen Donath demonstrated her complete mastery of the Lied both in recital and in a Master Class for Amherst College voice students. Moreover, her voice, while it retains the amazing youthful clarity and precision that three decades' worth of recordings superbly document, has grown substantially in size and weight in the last few years since her skillful but light role debut as Countess Almaviva at the Met . With no loss in tonal quality or ease at the top, her middle and lower registers now pack considerable power, and I envy those non-New York dwellers who have been able to enjoy the soprano in her most recent operatic assumptions (Elisabeth, Rosalinde, Donna Anna, the Marschallin). On the evidence of this recital, she should be singing these roles and others (the Capriccio Countess, Alice Ford, Daphne, Ellen Orford) with the Met, Chicago and San Francisco. Helen Donath could sing most of the recent "major house" exponents of these roles (plus others in her repertory, such as Liu) into the ground. Whether it be age discrimination, or the fact that Donath- for all that she is one of the most recorded American singers in history, with highly distinguished interpretations of music from Monteverdi through Britten under many great conductors- does not have a major label pushing her like... but I won't name names. At any rate, lots of major contracts should be offered her forthwith. One bit of exciting news: Miami can look forward to a Tannhauser uniting both Donaths within the next few years.

The Donaths offered a focused Liederabend, lightly stressing the folkish traditions in late Romantic German song (Brahms, Pfitzner, Mahler, Richard Strauss). From the start it was clear that theirs is a true partnership, one of firmly elaborated but spontaneous-seeming musical and verbal detail communicated to the audience with honesty and devotion. As with Ewa Podles and Jerzy Marchwinski (or Sanford Sylvan and David Breitman), their mutual awareness and sensitivity to one another's musical impulses comes as intensely refreshing after several ballyhooed recitals in which Recording Stars have been seemingly airlifted down beside Celebrity Accompanists. 

Mrs. Donath was in exceptional voice from the start, and displayed astonishing dynamic range and control (her ability to crescendo and decrescendo- sometimes both- while masterfully shaping legato phrases took our- not her- breath away). Both artists clearly place a premium on firm legato. That Helen Donath's command of German texts is unrivalled among American singers will not be news to those who know her recordings; at the Master Class she gave the credit to Maestro Donath, saying that they had sometime spent hours on a single consonant cluster; but still, like Eliza Doolittle, she did the learning. I personally have a rather low tolerance for the "hearty" kind of "character songs" such as Brahms' "Och Moder, ich well en Ding han," but while such songs bring out a coy side to Mrs. Donath's art, she renders them with a sunny humor which seems part of her character and, let it be said, without the grotesque distortions of tone and musical line that characterize the work of the most famous recorded interpretr of such pieces.

Highlights of the first half included a radiant "Es steht ein Lind" (Brahms), the heartfelt Pfitzner "Hast du von den Fischerkindern" along with his slightly better known "Ist der Himmel darum im Lenz so blau". I greatly enjoyed the three Mahler Rückert Lieder that began the second half ("Ich bin der Welt abhanden gekommen," "Ich atmet' einen linden Duft" and "Um Mitternacht"), deeply impressive for atmosphere, textual penetration and - in "Um Mitternacht" - a rare absolute tonal solidity at both extremes of the range. Mrs. Donath's remarks at the Master Class on adding additional breaths, if needed, to provide strong phrase endings threw light on some unorthodox choices in the Mahler (the final "Mit-ternacht" the only one I would question); but the musical mastery was everywhere evident. In general her management of her breath is astonishing: without intruding on the musical line she seems almost to yawn down a huge amount of breath, giving her plenty of reserves for commanding, radiant attacks on phrases. I suspect I am not the only Helen Donath fan to have come to her voice via her matchless Sophie von Faninal for Solti, so it will surprise no one that she remains a wonderful Strauss singer. (It's high time for a Four Last Songs recording!) The highlights of the Strauss group- which largely avoided the usual chestnuts- were "Rote Rosen" and "Leises Lied", followed by a moving and absolutely stunningly sung "Allerseelen" as an encore. A lovely evening.

The next morning's Master Class showcased the Donaths' admirable and generous music-making in another light. Their willingness to meet and work seriously with undergraduates at 10 AM the morning following a recital speaks volumes for their commitment to the future of the Lied as an art form. The four students, all vocally gifted and well-prepared musically, evidenced real courage: can you imagine being 21 and singing "Morgen" for Helen and Klaus Donath at ten in the morning? "Morgen" fell to Sheryl Krevsky, soprano, the most musically polished; "Lachen und Weinen" to another soprano, Jennifer Almiron, who best was able to incorporate the Donath's suggestions; "Sonntag" to mezzo Alyson Kiesel, who manifested the most personal and striking timbre; and "Waldesgespraech" to tenor Joshua Wolf, who had the firmest ideas about conveying drama. Excellent and deeply musical piano support was provided by Amherst's conductor Lanfranco Marcelletti in a tour-de-force of sight-reading.

Central to the Donaths' concerns was the need for a complete understanding of the German text and the ability to render it accurately in speech as well as song; the need for the singer to project the song from beginning to end, including preludes, pauses and postludes; the equalization of registers; the cultivation of a legato line on the breath and the proper weighting of words on the line. Mrs. Donath asked one student to practise her song purely on vowels, and two of them to add broad arm movements to unleash the breath, stressing the need for flexibility and ingenuity in preparation, in making a song one's own. (Her demonstration of combining disco moves with studio work on lieder was a comic highlight topped only by her story of Karl Richter demanding that she render for his amusement long stretches of the Matthew Passion with a Texan accent.) Maestro Donath manifested great acuity in suggesting ways to shape phrases, time pauses and in general to maximize the communicative content of a song. Their interaction both with the students and one another shed light on their methods of working and thereby not only on the previous evening's recital but on their recorded collaborations-- search hard for the superb lieder disc on EMI; the "Unknown" Mozart arias and the Der Hirt aus dem Felsen/German Romantic Songs with Clarinet on Acanta are fortunately easier to find.