More than anything on this interesting DVD, I will remember the heart-wrenching violins.  From the tremolos that begin Act II to the fragile solo that emerges from the sturm und drang of Kostelnicka’s exit to murder the baby, Bolton uses these moments of surpassing delicacy and beauty to a deeply touching effect.  Perhaps it is actually due to his Mozart and baroque mainstays that he is able to find so much depth, variety, and moments of revelatory surprise in this rich music.

Opus Arte has released this DVD of a performance of Jenufa from Teatro Real Madrid dated December 2009.  Janacek’s opera, which premiered in 1904 and was originally called Her Foster-Daughter, is a dark, brooding story set in rural Moravia, centering around the title character’s out of wedlock child and the desperate shame and tragedy that it causes for all around her.  Janacek’s music is a vivid blend of verismo power, Czech folk music, rapturous melody, and some sounds reflecting turn-of-the-century avant-garde.

The music maintains the oppressive tension of the village life while also revealing the inner emotions of each character—lush strings contrasting with percussive xylophones.  That Janacek brings all these disparate elements together to form a unified and very personal whole is remarkable.  Janacek also wrote the very effective libretto, adapted from Preissova’s play Její pastorkyna.  In good hands, Jenufa is a deeply moving and jarring operatic experience.

The quality of Bolton’s conducting (and playing by the Orchestra of Teatro Real Madrid) is matched by a marvelously simple production from Stephane Braunschweig, serving as both stage director and set designer.  The set consists of high, dark walls that heighten the sense of being trapped in a situation that is inescapable.  The walls are set at different angles for each act and highlight the very limited use of pieces to define the space: we have only Jenufa’s rosemary shrub in Act One, and, most powerfully, only the baby bed of Jenufa’s illegitimate child, focused in bright white light, serves Act Two in Kostelnicka’s house.

Use of color is limited, with the palette mostly in black, whites, and greys with the occasional burst of red.  The sets, costumes by Thibault Vancraenenbroeck, and stark lighting by Marion Hewlitt work together synergistically to focus our attention where it should be—not on spectacle or effects, but on the human interactions of the characters.

This is also a fascinatingly understated production.  There seems to be a conscious attempt here to flatten the more melodramatic moments and make them more naturalistic, and for the most part it works.  There is an Ibsen-like feel to the production, which gives the few moments of real vocal histrionics even more power.  In this production, the frightening moment at the end of Act One when Laca slashes Jenufa’s cheek as she resists his advances seems like nothing but an unfortunate accident, perhaps just la forza del destino.

This is most evident in Deborah Polaski’s portrayal of the stern and gloomy Kostelnicka, a part previously  ”owned” by Leonie Rysanek.  Polaski’s is a surprisingly restrained (some will say too restrained) Kostelnicka, more sympathetic and womanly than one expects.  Even in her mental deterioration in the final act, Polaski goes for realism rather than hysterics.

Ms. Polaski is also in extremely good voice here, pure toned throughout the range and without a trace of wobble.  While I missed a bit of the character’s severity (other characters describe her as “a gloomy sorceress” among other things), I found great pleasure in this portrayal of a real, three-dimensional woman who makes a terrible choice while trying to do the right thing in an impossibly difficult predicament.

British soprano Amanda Roocroft is a lovely if somewhat matronly Jenufa, sung and acted with great sensitivity and emotional power.  She moves effortlessly through Jenufa’s path, from her hopeful first act to the deep depression of Act Two and the shattering realizations and reconciliation of Act Three.  Her singing is mostly quite lovely, especially in pianos and in the middle voice.  She can float high notes beautifully as well; only when she presses the voice for volume does it take on a hard and glassy tone.

As the father of Jenufa’s baby, Nikolai Schukoff brings an appropriately oily, weak, and vacillating character to Steva, a man who faces the great decisions in life through a fog of alcohol or panicked self-interest.  Schukoff’s reedy tenor is well focused and he sings with admirable tone and variety.  As the hapless Laca, Miroslav Dvorsky brings a passionate and powerful dramatic tenor to the role, though one might wish for much more variety in his singing—most everything is loud and louder.  But he brings great heart to the role, and the final reconciliation duet with Jenufa is very touching.

The supporting cast is generally fine, though they occasionally seem to be performing a more melodramatic version than the lead singers.  Marta Matheu as the Mayor’s wife finds every cliché possible, and appears to be about to break out with “Pick a Little, Talk a Little.”  In contrast, Marta Ubieta finds much personality and style as Steva’s new fiancé, Karolka.

Overall, I found this production extremely interesting and moving, though sometimes underplayed in the climactic moments.  Nevertheless, it’s a fascinating “take” on Jenufa, dramatically and musically riveting.

The production design by Jurgen Röse offers a Mycenaen Palace entrance fashioned after Frank Lloyd Wright on a bender.  Very few right angles and some excellent carved rock windows of faint arts and crafts influence. It’s perfectly square and is framed nicely by the 1.33 screen format of the era. Costumes in bold, naive colors and patterns except for our heroine who is in a black Nazi shift with a belt and a chest strap.

Uncle Jimmy saunters into the pit with his baton already out of the holster and you can see from his demeanor that he is ready to have himself a real good time. He’s happy, a contented man in his element. He gives everyone a quick once-over and then he counts out a simple three beat. We then have, what is essentially a controlled explosion from the orchestra pit. I swear you hear someone’s eyeglasses in the front row shatter from the concussion. It just keeps getting better from there. Release the Geschreien!

A very strong quintet of maids anchored by the luscious contralto of Ellen Rabiner and the overseer of Janet Hopkins set the story up exceedingly well. Then Hildegard Behrens does that frantic dash across the back of the stage and, beloveds ,it’s on.

If you recall, our girl Hildegard was a fairly contentious presence at the time. Her singing wasn’t appreciated by many and she wasn’t content to just sit in the German wing. Clearly a favorite of Uncle Jimmy’s she landed some very plum assignments, like the Zefferelli Tosca prima, which I’m certain had a few sopranos gnashing their teeth. She also sang some Mozart that she wasn’t particularly adored for. I remember a broadcast Donna Anna that was seriously dire and, although I appreciated her dramatic gusto as Mozart’s Elettra in Idomeneo her singing was more like gusty. Then she got Brunnhilde in the new Ring and Eva Marton started burning black candles at midnight.

At its worst, Behrens’ voice had a very gritty bottom that sounded, literally, like gears were grinding. She wasn’t afraid to use if for effect, either. At its very best the top was bronze plated with silver and had a penetrating gleam. Not a traditional dramatic sound but one of those singers who left more than a piece of herself on every stage she set foot on. During this run of performances I also recall hearing she had one very bad night. No evidence of that here. Indeed, this may well be her best ever captured on video.

She starts “Allein! Weh, ganz allein”—I won’t say carefully but, safely. She’s making an obvious effort to place the voice on the breath.  She proves how beautifully and lyrically she can sing when she’s in good nick and by the aria’s climax she bends forward, practically in half, and shoots up with her fist all the way in the air, nailing the best high C I’ve ever heard from her. She really doesn’t set a foot wrong vocally after that. There’s still the occasional grit on the bottom, don’t get me wrong, but please remember her international career didn’t even start until she was 40 and she was 57 yrs. old when this was taped. In that context it’s almost superhuman.

Then Deborah Voigt sneaks out of the house as Chrysothemis and you’d think you’ve died and gone to heaven. I had actually forgotten how magnificent she was back in the day. She sings her great opening paean to maternal love and marriage with a voice that fills Strauss’ writing with glory every time she emits breath. She thunders out the aria’s climactic phrases and runs off at the sound of their approaching mother in the orchestra.  At this point the first five rows of the Met audience are suffering from tinnitus because of the volume.

Meanwhile, the back two stories of the palace start to light up with a circus parade from Hell as we all prepare for the arrival of Klytamnestra.  Brigitte Fassbaender only sang 38 performances at the Met, mostly Octavian and Mrs. Fricka Wotan. This was also, I believe, her retirement from the stage. She was a consummate artist who, I think, was undervalued in opera.  She skates the fine line between caricature and characterization here with great skill. Never too much, never too little.

Behrens doesn’t play this interview coy at the outset like some and it makes the sudden shift of favor from the one to the other and back at the conclusion all the more exciting. Fassbaender’s gorgon is perverse in all the best ways, she relishes every word of the text and her final laughs and spiders crawl exit up the palace stairs are magnificent.

Then Debbie’s on again with the bad news about their brother Orest being dead and we get the lezzy duet bit between the the two sisters and Hildegard mounts her right there in the courtyard. They’re just traded phrases here back and forth and one’s more ravishing than the next. Frankly, at this point I don’t care what they do to each other as long as they never stop singing. I’ll just avert my glance.

Then, that four-note phrase starts to appear and build in the pit and we have Orest’s arrival. Staged at first brilliantly in shadow and then in the personage of Donald McIntyre who, at the age of 60, is the only holdover from the cast when the Met mounted this opera for Nilsson in 1980. Blessedly, he’s still in fine vocal estate and the role is short. He also make a very commanding figure on stage.

Levine and Behrens and McIntyre proceed to give a master class on the Recognition Scene.The Met orchestra at this point sounds like they’re being conducted by the Devil himself. The playing is so clean and unified and teeming with emotion and longing. It almost hurts to listen to it and nothing short of devastating which is exactly what Mr. Strauss wanted. It’s a truly profound moment in an evening of greatness. Behrens is especially moving in her remembrances of what her life was like before. Then Orest is off to do his foul work and we get two great geschrei from Fassbaender offstage. Brava. Audience members in the front orchestra sections are now showing signs of profound deafness.

Our next arrival is James King, who comes tottering on as Aegisth, and Behrens gives him a hearty welcome and, after their brief tête-à-tête, ushers him inside to his doom. It’s a shame, really, because he looks so cute in his little turban.

Then Debbie’s back and we get more, more, more and she’s just flooding the place with sound and Behrens does her dance of joy/death.

I will now pause in my revelries to say the only place I find Ms. Behrens interpretation wanting is in her dance. I don’t know why it seems like she can’t dance or she’s doing something purposefully stiff.  She gets it right at the beginning of the evening.  She does grab her arm twice as if to presage her final heart attack (clever bit, that).  I just don’t see the joy in the dance and it is in the music even if it it is primitive. It’s the most minor quibble in the world. I forgive her.

Then Elektra’s dead and Debbie loads that cannon and fires off a few more salvos as she’s begging to be let back into the palace.  The curtain falls to pandemonium with a side order of bedlam.

If I haven’t mentioned the director Otto Schenk it’s because he did his job of staging and motivating his players so skillfully and naturally that the whole thing appears to be happening before your eyes as you witness it.

Brian Large once again dependably captures the action as video director. Camera placement on this one is so good that a lot of it looks like film set ups. Glorious DTS 5.1 surround sound so you can fire up your home entertainment system, set it to stun, and have your eardrums hemorrhaging by the curtain calls.  Picture’s good since it’s only 18 years ago, although Europe and Japan were all Hi-Def by then, thanks for asking.

A magnificent souvenir of a really great night at the opera with some performances we won’t see bettered for a while. Suffice to say I’ve watched this 3 times since acquiring it a few weeks ago and will return to it gladly, very soon. I remember when Strauss sounded dissonant to me when I was first learning opera. Now it’s like my mother singing to me in the cradle.

Where the stage version is a bit light on the requisite eerie atmosphere, Krasker has created it in this recording, a sort of “radio drama” version that somehow evokes the creepy grandeur of the original Hal Prince/Michael Bennett staging of this magnificent show. (He has also persuaded Bernadette Peters to sing Sally’s signature number “Losing My Mind” in a much more straightforward, and therefore more moving, style than she affects for the staged performances.) La Cieca has no idea how long this bargain price will hold, so she urges you to act quickly!

This video is presumably the version that will be released on DVD about six weeks from now. (Photo: Stephanie Berger)

Furthermore, Vittorio Gui, who had already been introducing the Glyndebourne audiences to Rossini, was eager to add more belcanto works to the repertoire of that opera company. This effort is now documented on the CD just released on the Glyndebourne Enterprise label.  

The first thing that caught my attention is the butchery that Gui did to the score.   Not a single piece, with the exception of the Larghetto maestoso “Oh vieni al tempio” at the end of act I, escapes his scissors.  Small and big cuts abound everywhere.  At the beginning of the opera only half of the Prelude is performed; the whole instrumental introduction to the Allegro sostenuto marziale “Quando la tromba squilla” (about 25 measures) disappear, and the chorus itself is severely reduced.

Dame Joan apparently did not yet have sufficient star power, because even much of her music is slashed: the whole daccapo of her Act I duet with Giorgio is missing, and two big cuts in her Polonaise total over 80 cut measures.   In her Mad Scene, both the tempo di mezzo and the daccapo of the cabaletta are pruned.  This is the exactly kind of horror that very soon led La Stupenda to decide to drop her collaboration with any conductor other than her husband.

I could continue and list all the excisions, of which I have duly made a note, but it would be redundant and fastidious.  I will point out some of the most Draconian cuts as I comment the performances of each singer.

Gui, his blood-curdling editing choices notwithstanding, is quite good: graceful, elegant in the most lyrical moments, tense and suspenseful in the Allegro agitato assai of the dramatic conversation between Enrichetta and Arturo, and almost terrifying in pages like the storm at the beginning of Act 3.  He pays attention to details that are often overlooked, such as the Act II tenebrous brief ensemble “Quaggiù nel mal che questa valle serra”, an Andante of Gluckian tinge.  He likes it so much that he repeats it immediately before Elvira’s “O rendetemi la speme”, eliminating the horns and bassoons introduction written by Bellini.

He also proves to be one of those old school Italian conductors able to assist the singers, complying with, and often foreseeing their intentions.

Dame Joan is simply marvelous.  In the first act duet with the bass, she throws herself with gusto in the difficult agilità di forza that characterize this piece, produces two perfect consecutive trills on the G and A on the words “di dolor” and ends it with a huge, endless high D.  That she sails spectacularly through “Son vergin vezzosa” comes as no surprise, while more unexpected turns out to be the heartfelt anguish she communicates in the Act I finale, with a piercing, desperate F flat on the word “ahimè”.

This early in her career, the Australian soprano was clearly trying to pay a closer attention to her fraseggio, while in subsequent years the vocalist increasingly and unapogetically prevailed on the interpreter.  Even her diction, always her Achilles’ heel, was here much brighter and more comprehensible.  She is hardly a vocal actress, but her effort to articulate cannot be denied.

In 1960 both ends of her extremely wide range were equally strong.  In “Oh vieni al tempio”, the two octaves descent from high C to low C is stupefying.  Surprisingly, she does not conclude the first act with the high B flat written by Bellini, opting to end on an octave lower.   Another absolute rarity for Dame Joan is the small crack she experiences in the cadenza after “Ah tu non sai che più nol temo” in Act III, where for a fraction of a second her voice breaks on a high C sharp:  an insignificant incident in an otherwise flawless performance, in my opinion superior to both her studio recordings of this opera, which are however generally preferable for the reopening of the cuts.

Giuseppe Modesti (Giorgio), distinguishes himself for the handsomeness, if not for the volume, of his bass.  He is elegant, noble, paternal, and especially emotionally involved.  He invests his act II romanza with ductility through tasteful fiati rubati, rallentandos and messe di voce; his high Es flat are round and secure, while the conclusive low A flat turns out rather faint.

Ernest Blanc, at the height of his power, is a notable Riccardo.  His baritone is homogeneous, warm and rich, with a bass-like low register (the low A flat on “per anni ed anni” in his cavatina, a real hurdle for most baritones, is here perfectly supported and sonorous), as well as a confident top: both the high G at the end of the cabaletta (whose daccapo is eliminated) and the A flat concluding “Suoni la tromba” are notes that could peel the paint off the ceiling.   The only problem in this duet is that Blanc sounds more of a bass than Modesti.

With a cultivated legato, Blanc is a true gentleman, a chevalier, who elicits sympathy.  His pertichini during Elvira’s mad scenes are heartbreaking; the gorgeous phrase Bellini writes for Riccardo (“gli occhi affisa sul mio volto…”) is haunting in Blanc’s rendition, with a sweet E flat piano.

Blanc was active in a time when opera in France was mostly sung in the vernacular language, and his relative unfamiliarity with the Italian language is here and there manifest.  Other than this, his Riccardo is one of the best I have heard.

The fly in the ointment is the Arturo of Nicola Filacuridi.  The Egyptian-born Greek tenor, who Italianized his name as it was still fashionable in those days, is already slightly flat on the very first note of “A te, o cara”.  The famous C sharp lasts exactly a semiquaver.  I suspect he did not do it out of respect of Bellini’s notation (that’s how the composer writes it), but rather because he was unable to hold it longer.

Already facilitated by the huge quantity of cuts (for instance, more than half of “Non parlar di lei che adoro”, with all those Gs and As, is expunged), he sings the rest of the score looking for a compromise after the other.  In “Vieni fra queste braccia” (where over twenty measures of music vanish), he ducks the high D, while in the daccapo he switches parts with the soprano, who caps it with a glorious high C, drowning completely Filacuridi’s smallish voice.  In “Ella è spirante”, not only he does foreseeably skip the high F in altissimo, but does not even attempt the high D flat.   Furthermore, he often shuffles words when singing above an A, making sure the high note falls on the vowel E instead of A or O.   In a few words, an Arturo who can barely make it to a high C sharp is simply fraudulent.

Dame Joan’s frequent co-star, Monica Sinclair, sings Enrichetta, and bass David Ward is Lord Walton.

A final curiosity:  the CD cover lists British tenor John Kentish (Bruno) as the third name after Sutherland and Filacuridi, and omits Ernest Blanc altogether; the inside booklet places Kentish’s name at the very top (even before Sutherland!).  I would not be surprised if our own Vicar of Wakefield had had a hand in it.

Note, too, that any time you want to purchase a new opera CD or DVD, you can search for it on the Little Shop of Arias page, and following the resulting link will mean that La Cieca will receive her customary commission on your purchase.

The conditions of this telecast were arduous for all concerned. Television director Brian Large recalled later: “There wasn’t a costume in the place that fitted her. It was an unnerving experience. But she was wonderful.” Migenes herself remembers getting the fateful “you’re going on” phone call from the Met after a long day of Christmas shopping. It is to her credit that she goes far beyond simply hitting her marks or avoiding a musical train wreck — reason enough for gratitude, considering the circumstances of the performance. In fact, Migenes delivers a poised, detailed and compelling portrayal that utterly belies the urgency of the situation.

Curiously, the cover and liner notes for this release shed no light on the harrowing nature of Migenes’ achievement. It should also be noted the DVD does not include the intermission features originally aired (these features were pre-recorded — and unavoidably awkward, owing to their focus on the diva in absentia).

It is impossible to catalogue the various interpretative facets Migenes brings to this archetypal character. The tough, street-wise survivor aspect is most prominent but this does not mean she lacks femininity or allure. Patrice Chéreau, stage director for the 1979 Paris premiere of Friedrich Cerha‘s completion of the score, once described Lulu as an alien force in her Teutonic world, an outsider, possibly a gypsy or Jewish. Migenes’ ethnic facial features certainly suggest this dimension of the role. More importantly, she has the figure and grace of a ballet dancer and exploits these features to her seductive advantage. Throughout, she sports a becoming wig of henna-colored tresses, sometimes elaborately styled. She wears the dizzying array of costumes required most beautifully and exudes a voluptuous sensuality that was probably not a strong suit of Stratas’ performance.

Vocally, Migenes is equal to the high-flying demands of the role. Her pungent lyric soprano is notable for its smoky, slightly mezzo-like timbre. There is the occasional hint of rawness on certain high notes but her confident musicianship sweeps all before it. She is fluent and persuasive in the numerous spoken passages. Her ability to execute the vocal writing lyrically and accurately is appreciable.

Perhaps her greatest accomplishment is the ability to serve as passive reflection of the death instinct that drives Lulu’s various victims, rather than the active agent of their destruction. Migenes can be vulnerable when needed but she never sentimentalizes the character or falls into easy choices simply to win the audience’s sympathy. She is content to embody the amoral animal that is Wedekind’s creation, without editorializing, and this provides maximum space for the other characters to play out their respective compulsions.

Migenes is surrounded by cast of genuine distinction, several of whom had participated in the earlier Chéreau production for Paris. Franz Mazura‘s fierce, almost ghoulish presence makes him equally menacing in the dual roles of Dr. Schoen and Jack the Ripper. Mazura’s unconventional bass-baritone has a uniquely spectral quality and his biting enunciation of the text allows for superb use of parlando. His scenes with Migenes crackle with a tension wholly appropriate to a showdown between two elemental forces.

Kenneth Riegel is reasonably attractive in both voice and appearance and he negotiates the difficult tessitura of Alwa’s part with greater success than most. Given these merits, it seems unkind to find fault but erotic chemistry is critical to the success of his scenes with Lulu and Riegel falls short in a role that cries out for a hybrid of Fritz Wunderlich and Jonas Kaufmann.

Evelyn Lear, a highly successful Lulu of an earlier generation, plays the role of Countess Geschwitz with patrician restraint and dignity. She is an incredibly beautiful woman, something her pageboy wig and mannish costumes do nothing to disguise (they do make her a dead ringer for Lee Grant, however). Her warm, luminous soprano is heard in good late estate. Lear is taxed by the sustained lines of Geschwitz’s final apostrophe (who isn’t?) but is otherwise affecting and moving.

Lenus Carlson‘s commanding, house-filling Animal Tamer gets the performance off to a splendid start and he is unflinchingly loathsome as the boorish Acrobat. Andrew Foldi‘s Schigolch has an almost Stanislavsky-like degree of nuance and he manages to be both touching and repulsive. Hilda Harris and Nico Castel are also deserving of praise in their triple assignments, as is Frank Little as the tortured Painter.

James Levine‘s conducting eschews the cerebral detachment of Pierre Boulez in favor of lush, complex orchestral textures. He amplifies the echoes of Richard Strauss, Gustav Mahler and others in a way that clearly links Berg to the German Romantic tradition. The innovative use of instruments (vibraphone) and forms (fox trot, jazz) is not so much jarring here as it is beguiling. In short, Levine infuses the score with a humanity that provides fascinating counterpoint to the cruel, dehumanizing features of the story.

John Dexter‘s staging, with set and costume designs by Jocelyn Hebert, is one the most eloquent productions ever to grace the stage of the Metropolitan Opera. All of the action is contained on box-like wagons that roll on and off effortlessly throughout the performance. They contain a dazzling series of period designs, ranging from heavy Victorian to Mucha-like Art Nouveau, and each serves as a cage wherein the various animal metaphors of the Prologue are given expression by the players. There are many unforgettable images but none more so than the Painter’s apartment, with Lulu in a snake-like dressing gown slithering through a Jugendstil jungle of green carpets and dark wooden furniture. Dexter integrates the disparate elements of Feydeau-like farce, Theatre of the Absurd and nightmarish Expressionism into a powerful whole.

In conclusion, this DVD documents both an extraordinary performer and production. Highly recommended.

As with all good singers, some very much dislike Ms. Radvanovsky’s voice. Some say it is too earthy, some don’t care for the upper register, and some manage to say the voice is too small. After hearing Ms. Radvanovsky live three times at the Met in recent seasons (Leonora, Lina, and Elvira), I can assure you her vocal presence is as clear and powerful as any soprano out there today, so let’s put that canard to rest.

But what really excites me about her singing is its uniqueness. I love when you hear a singer and know, after only a few bars, who that special timbre belongs to — think of the list in the first paragraph. That is indeed the definition of  “memorable,” and Ms. Radvanovsky’s voice is memorable to say the least. The earthy, smoky, almost husky middle and lower voice blossom into a powerful and shining upper register with a golden color over which she has wonderful control.

And yet in all that beauty, Ms. Radvanovsky can find a vicious anger, as seen in a passage many sopranos under-emphasized, the  “Maledizione!” at the end of “Pace, pace.” The ringing top edges on madness, and all sense of time and beat falls away into a desperate curse.

Luckily this is the only instance where phrasing is thrown to the wind for effect. Ms. Radvanovsky truly has a feel for the line and shape of a Verdian phrase. The clarity of her Italian leaves something to be desired, committing more focus to creating a legato phrase than to clearly defining individual sounds – but to me this is certainly the side on which a Verdi singer should err.

One thing that drove me wild on this album is her Aida. While she has not performed the role in its entirety yet, the liner notes indicate that the announcement of a Radvanovsky Aida is coming soon, and when it is, I am getting a ticket. Her treatment of the recitative was nothing short of sublime, and the heart-rending conflict of the piece is drawn to its furthest extent without losing sincerity. And it is all summed up in one of the most beautiful pianissimo endings of  “O patria mia” one will ever hear.

In a perfect world you’d have it all, but I’m more than happy to take the small “imperfections” in Ms. Radvanovsky’s voice. After all, that’s what makes a singer great – not a generic sound or feeling, but to express our own individual statement and feeling, which Ms. Radvanovsky does with deft ability and a truly unique beauty.

The recording itself is remarkably quiet and clear for a live performance. There are none of the audience sounds and sonic quirks normally associated with “bootleg” recordings, and a bare minimum of stage noise. Applause is also rarely heard, leading one to wonder whether the Glyndebourne audience was particularly reticent or whether applause was deliberately limited by the engineers when the recording was prepared.

One suspects a bit of both, which makes for unusually brisk transitions between scenes for a live recording. There are also some sonic limitations due to the technology available for live recording at the time. The result is a certain lack of tonal liveliness that makes Cillario’s slower tempi seem plodding at times, when they might have more life with a brighter sonic palette.

The performance is a valuable historical document, but seems unlikely to unseat familiar favorites among the live and studio recordings of this opera. This is not to say, however, that there isn’t much to admire. Ensemble singing is particularly noteworthy, especially for a live performance. Concerted numbers that all too often turn into a shouting contest are sung at a consistent mezzo-piano and articulated lightly under the principal melodic material.

Nemorino is sung by Peruvian tenor Luigi Alva. He was the reigning tenore di grazia of his era, bridging the interval between the careers of Cesare Valletti and Alfredo Kraus, and this performance finds him in his prime. He was a singer of modest vocal resources, however, and this limited the extent to which he could be expressive with his voice, as well as his dramatic credibility as a romantic figure. While his characterization is well-delineated, it does occasionally give the impression that the lead role is being sung by a character tenor.

A good example of this is Nemorino’s famous aria “Una furtiva lagrima,” which is phrased with great sensitivity and an elegantly spun legato line but with a tone that becomes shallow and reedy at the climaxes just when one might like a bit more vocal cream.

Sordello here has an old-school Italian sound with a fast vibrato and a bit of snarl, which he uses to good effect in portraying Belcore’s self-importance and swagger without resorting to caricature effects. Vocally, he begins a bit stiff, but loosens up as the performance moves along and gives some of his best material in the second act “Venti scudi” duet with Nemorino, keeping in perfect balance with Alva throughout.

Bruscantini, senior among this young cast, also acquits himself well. His voice is among the more vocally present and tonally satisfying on the recording, and his characterization is the strongest among the principals. He manages to express Dulcamara’s sly humor, joy and colorful personality without relying on excessive vocal effects, which is always a risk in this repertoire.

The real star of the cast, of course, is the young Freni as Adina. Her singing is lively and stylish throughout, and it’s quite easy to hear both the chorus and her colleagues come to life whenever she is on the stage. In particular, she displays a remarkable ability to execute notes at the top of the staff with a light touch, keeping them in line with the phrase and avoiding improper emphasis, and yet maintaining a full tone that never “comes off the voice.” Her judicious use of dynamics and expressive rubato make sense out of phrases and cadenze that singers all too often either distort in a display of vocal prowess or barrel through with superficial attention to detail.

If there is to be any criticism of Freni’s performance here, it is the same that describes much of her singing career: stylish, musical, tasteful and beautiful, but not exactly filled with compelling characterization and dramatic life. For example, her singing of Adina’s aria and cabaletta is so skillful that one is disappointed that the second repetition is omitted (although thankfully Cillario didn’t omit the cabaletta entirely, as was common practice in those days). Yet it must be said that one doesn’t hear Adina’s love for Nemorino echoed in Freni’s voice, nor her joy at discovering that love reciprocated.

So her performance is excellent, but in a general sort of way. It comes too early for the possibility of variations, embellishments, customized cadenze and other stylistic choices that were made possible by bel canto revival scholarship. And yet, it is also not particularly personalized with the romantic-era interpretive customs still available in this repertoire. The prevailing impression, then, is a lack of personal involvement with the character, and as a result, sopranos who could never hope to match Freni’s vocal standard have given more compelling performances in this role.

The CDs are slipped into small slots on the inside of the front and back of a hardcover book containing the full Italian libretto with translations into English, French and German, together with a synopsis in all four languages and the usual commissioned article about the piece.

Also included are a few pictures and some details about the production as well as Glyndebourne’s archival recording project.  This high quality, attractive and sturdy packaging avoids much of the wasted space, earth-killing plastic and breakage issues typical of the “box set” packaging normally used for opera.

Overall, this is an attractive presentation of a strong live performance by an all-star cast, reflecting mid-20th century performance practice for this repertoire. It will be well worth purchasing for Freni fans on the strength of her performance as well as the historical record of her early career.

That said, it seems unlikely to join the ranks of favored recordings of this work. Even for mid-1960s live performances, it must take second place to the 1967 Bergonzi/Scotto recording recording under the baton of Gianandrea Gavazzeni, which features more expressive, if less polished, singing from the Adina and an altogether better Nemorino.

Since then the production has been revived several times with galaxy of international mezzo-sopranos such as Jennifer Larmore, Sonia Ganassi, Olga Borodina and, just this past season, superstar Elina Garanca.

The Latvian mezzo-soprano has achieved a dizzying ascent to the highest echelons of operatic stardom in only a few years. She possesses all the ingredients the modern operatic world considers necessary to reach the A list: a pleasant voice, an even more pleasant stage presence, and a photogenic quality for glamorous CD covers. (An exclusive contract with a major recording company is arguably the single most important component).

Although Ms. Garanca introduced herself to the Met audience with Rosina and Cenerentola, I would not consider her a belcanto specialist. In general her coloratura is more than acceptable; however, my distinct feeling is that this repertoire is not like a second skin to her. She lacks the nonchalance and insouciance that a true belcantista wields when tackling those interminable florid musical figures.

The skill of true belcanto specialists is to make the audience believe they are doing acrobatics in mid air without a protective net. Obviously, they do have a net, their ironclad technique, but the audience is supposed to be sitting on the edge of their seats, mouths open in awe and suspense. In Miss Garanca’s approach to pyrotechnics I detect a certain sense of caution that slightly detracts from the feeling of utter elation one should experience at the end of such a tour-de-force as Angelina’s rondò.

My exacting standards are allowed only because we live in an age rich with true Rossini specialists. Not too long ago a performance like Ms. Garanca’s would have been considered flawless.

Overall, Ms. Garanca is an impressive Cenerentola, and even by today’s high standards her performance can ultimately be qualified as a success. Her voice is velvety and mellifluous. She sings tastefully and knows how to shape a phrase, with lovely portamentos and messe di voce, with an even, equalized production throughout her range.

Finally, she is breathtakingly beautiful. She is in fact perhaps too beautiful and regal as the rag-wearing Cenerentola, so that when she later appears in a magnificent evening gown, the contrast is not so striking and dramatic and as it should be.

Ms. Garanca is one of those magnetic artists who automatically galvanizes the audience’s attention, even more so on an HD video, which captures her stunning features, innate elegance and captivating smile in vivid detail. She is not the most humble and unostentatious Cenerentola I have seen; her supermodel looks may have something to do with that.

Her Prince Charming, on the contrary, does not cut a very romantic figure. As much as I would like to ignore it, there is no denying that tenor Lawrence Brownlee’s appeal is severely limited by a less than dashing physical appearance. His somewhat ungainly acting, confined to a few stock gestures, does not help.

His voice, one the other hand, is far from rigid and wooden. To say it plainly, Mr. Brownlee is a first class vocalist. He knows how to sing “sul fiato” producing a homogeneous sound from top to bottom, with no hint of the nasality that often characterizes this type of tenors. His high register is rich with overtones, full of squillo, his bottom sonorous and well supported.

His rendition of “Sì, ritrovarla io giuro” is illustrative of his skills; he is at ease both in the high parts, such as the cabaletta “Dolce speranza” with its exposed high Cs, as well as in the mid section, the Andantino “Pegno adorato e caro”, which, in contrast, lies quite low. Mr. Brownlee is, in a few words, a full lyric tenor gifted with a very wide range and a masterful command of coloratura.

Alessandro Corbelli, perhaps the leading Dandini of the ‘80s and ‘90s, is now singing Don Magnifico with the experience of a long career spent tackling much more virtuosistic roles. Unlike many buffos, he actually sings his part with a real, rich voice; he never speaks or barks his notes. The Italian baritone completely masters the art of rapid-fire patter, of which Rossini arguably wrote the most arduous example with the aria “Sia qualunque delle figlie”.

The role of Dandini is in my view the most difficult to cast. It requires either a buffo able to cope with very flowery singing, or a virtuoso with comic skills, and it’s no easy task to find both qualities, in exactly the same measures, in the same artist. And so, normally, opera companies tend to hire a buffo who will somehow survive all the agility. This Dandini, Simone Alberghini, seems to belong in the latter category. Although he is extremely effective on stage, Mr. Alberghini, whose voice is on the dry side to begin with, tends to aspirate, flatten or slide over the coloratura, and this does not work for me.

Neither am I enthusiastic about John Relyea. The Canadian bass’s instrument has noticeably deteriorated since the first time I heard him in this opera a decade ago, now sounding metallic and unwieldy. Alidoro’s role is virtually limited to one single but major aria; “Là del ciel nell’arcano profondo” is essentially an opera seria aria, with huge intervals, tricky high notes and intricate ornate writing, to which only belcanto masters of the caliber of Samuel Ramey or Michele Pertusi can do full justice.

The roles of the two stepsisters are thankless, with a lot of stage time and no chances to shine. Rachelle Durkin (Clorinda) and Patricia Risley, repeating their roles from the previous revival, are a comically smooth and well tried team. I would prefer a less acidulous sound from Clorinda, who, like Elvira in L’italiana in Algeri and Berta in Il barbiere di Siviglia, is the dominating and most exposed female voice in the ensembles.

Maurizio Benini is a brilliant conductor. In his hands, the famous overture is both a delicate lacework of rarefied and nuanced sounds, and a game of vivid and bright reflections; the famous crescendos are achieved without accelerating tempos, a regrettably all too common trick. He has impeccable timing and draws a musically accurate, polished yet zestful, bubbly performance.

The production by Cesare Lievi, with sets and costumes by Maurizio Balò, was first unveiled in 1997 to mixed reviews. As it is by now a familiar production, I will not dwell on it too long. Personally I like Lievi’s conglomeration of Magritte and Lewis Carroll allusions and do not completely agree with those who find it marred by excessive busyness. Yes, it’s hectic, but after all it is an opera buffa. I do agree that recurring to elements like cracked mirrors, three legged sofas, peeling wallpaper as symbol of moral decline are (and were in 1997) already a bit too bromidic.

As it is clearly noted on the DVD back cover, this production was made possible by Alberto Vilar, who has just made headlines one more time for being sentenced to nine years in prison for wire fraud, securities fraud and money laundering.

I find no fault in Gary Halvorson’s DVD direction. As usual, he seems to know the score in detail and has an acute sense of what to highlight. There is nothing distracting in this direction, and this is more than sufficient for me. The only minor flaw I noticed was to show the wedding cake from above, revealing the steps and thus spoiling the effect of the two protagonists climbing on top of it.

Thomas Hampson is the host of the performance. Except for a brief introduction, his interviews with the artists are included in the DVD’s extras. The most interesting information comes from Ms. Garanca, who reveals her intention to drop La Cenerentola from her repertoire very soon and dedicate herself to less acrobatic, more dramatic roles. She does not say it here, but in other interviews she has declared that her biggest goal is to sing… Amneris.

Conductor worship reflects the musical utopianism that has long been intertwined with the Festival.  Joseph Horowitz’s book Wagner Nights: An American History describes the cult surrounding Wagner disciple Anton Seidl (1850-1898), who worked alongside Wagner at the first Bayreuth season and led the first performances of the Ring at the Metropolitan Opera. He was the focus of an unprecedented fascination among the ladies of New York’s elite social clubs, who wore embroidered “S” insignias on their blouses to show their devotion.

Seidl was divisive. Accused by some critics of pompous grandiosity, to others he was simply “perfect,” the authentic carrier of the Wagner flame. The public, reported Henry Krehbiel once in the New York Tribune, “used all the opportunities offered it to applaud the musician with all the enthusiasm that an opera audience can arouse.”

But Seidl was not a god but an apostle – a secondary figure in the cult of Wagner, which idealized the composer’s modernist musical and theatrical vision on one hand, and a longing for a lost Romanticism on the other. It is this curious mixture of Utopianism and sentimental longing that has always defined the argument over how Wagner should be performed.

German conductor Christian Thielemann has engendered a similar cult worship, and even more controversy. In the early 1990s, while still a house conductor at Düsseldorf, he was making his first appearances with major opera houses, including his New York debut at the Met in 1993 with Der Rosenkavalier.  Appointed Music Director of Berlin’s Deutsche Oper in 1997, he gave up the position in 2004 in a bitter fight with Berlin’s city authorities over funding and autonomy.

Somewhere in this wrangling for control of Berlin’s opera houses, Thielemann was accused of making a private anti-Semitic comment about the Staatsoper’s Generalmusikdirektor Daniel Barenboim. He denied it, but the bitter taste has followed him. According to some of his detractors, Thielemann is not just a pompous reactionary musician, but even a catalyst for certain fans’ latent Nazism.

I observed a considerable Thielemann cult in Vienna when he conducted Parsifal there in 2005. Crowds would erupt in shouts and applause upon his entering the pit. At the time, I found his Parsifal strange and forced, with sluggish tempos that were inhospitable to the singers.  Keeping an open mind, I came to appreciate his recording of Schoenberg’s Pelleas und Melisande (with the orchestra of Deutsche Oper Berlin). Rapturous, glowing sound pervades, but also a studious and transparent handling of Schoenberg’s orchestral layers.  I even found myself using superlatives – could there be a better reading of this piece?

Thielemann is the boldest name featured on a new recording of Der Ring des Nibelungen, available this month from Arte Nova (14 CDs), which was taped live in 2008 at the Bayreuth Festival. The booklets accompanying the package, besides complete libretti, include a short essay titled Auf dem Siegestreppchen (On the Victor’s Podium) by Christian Wildhagen, which overlooks no opportunity to adorn Thielemann with laurels. He places the conductor’s  “Wagnerian miracles” rightfully in the “Valhalla of Wagnerian performances” at Bayreuth. What do such miracles sound like, then, on disc?

Conductor Christian Thielemann making "miracles"

We are not living in a golden age of Wagnerian singing. While there are many excellent basses and baritones singing Wagner today, there is no glut of dramatic sopranos or heldentenors. Bayreuth recordings of previous decades could pass muster with mediocre orchestral playing simply because it had, say, Astrid Varnay as Brünnhilde, but this set succeeds instead – and it mostly does succeed – because of Thielemann’s dramatic, unifying approach to the mammoth work’s interlocking elements.

The orchestra begins Das Rheingold with a placid, meditative E-flat arpeggio, pristine in pitch, seamless in its passage between strings, horns and woodwinds. All the entrances, crescendos, and curves meld into an impressive swell of orchestral sound.

The Rhinemaidens scene is sung with sweetness and ease, though some forced high notes from Woglinde sour the mood. Andrew Shore is a slightly ragged Alberich, but the role is not prized for lyricism, and his characterization is otherwise vibrant and detailed. Christa Mayer, as Erda, displays solid musicianship, but the sound disappoints on disc. Her warning to Wotan should be like a beam of light, wise and ethereal, but Mayer’s sound, thin and hollow, is marred by a nervous quiver.

Vocally, Die Walküre is a step up, largely because of the excellent young Dutch soprano Eva-Maria Westbroek as Sieglinde and Kwangchul Youn as a lyrical, sensitive Hunding. Westbroek’s voice is already mature and wise, large enough to suggest the tired, burdened wife. She uses an inflected mezza voce to whisper to the sleeping Siegmund, then shines with the unburdened radiance of a near-goddess with her expansive lines “O fünd ich Ihn heut’ und hier!”

Albert Dohmen has the power and articulation to be a standard-bearer in the role of Wotan. Dark but not villainous, booming but never shouted, his voice also has a pathos and frailty that rounds out the tragic god’s sound-portrait. And as the Wanderer of Siegfried, his voice is solid throughout his range with particularly impressive lower notes that seem to amplify endlessly according to the demands of the phrase.

The detailed and thoughtful Act One shows particularly nice work from the strings. The violins play disciplined graded dynamics throughout, with lyrical and curvy melodies that also do not lack for rhythm, vitality or incisive sforzandi. The sound varies from gauzy and mellow, to the more sensual metallic, piercing hue recognizable from other Bayreuth recordings.

Thielemann imbues the orchestral playing with intensity and urgency later in the opera, when Brünnhilde resolves to assist Siegmund against her father’s wishes. Both orchestra and Linda Watson (Brünnhilde), brimming with paranoid frenzy, paint a vivid picture in the “theater of the mind.” Thielemann accompanies singers carefully, then in moments of action, he drives the music with exhilarating fire.

Stephen Gould grows into the Siegfried of the third opera, the voice eventually opening up to show more resonance and ping. His variable Siegfried yields perplexing results: while he surmounts the ferocious challenges of tessitura and sheer length with considerable facility, the sound is muted, and the top notes are often pinched. Throughout “Nothung! Nothung! Neidliches Schwert!” he struggles to be heard through the orchestral textures. Against Fafner the Dragon, sung by Hans-Peter König, Gould stands up better. Summoning a golden chest voice, he etches a mental picture of a true Aryan bully, spouting insults and spoiling for a fight.

Early in Götterdämmerung, Gould’s Siegfried takes on a lighter quality, thin and not quite heroic. Then in the Oath scene with Hagen, in Act Two, he is once more more piercing and elastic. However, he barely manages the high C of his “Hoihe!” to Hagen in Act Three of Götterdämmerung, cracking a bit on the way down.

As Mime, Gerhard Siegel is committed and exciting. He sings a full tilt performance, holding long notes tenaciously, and conjuring a Mime who is both evil and pathetically needy. In fact, he almost outshines the Siegfried, singing at first with greater passion and a more ringing tone than the hero.

Edith Haller’s birdlike Gutrune makes small moments such as “Wilkommen, Gast, in Gibich’s haus” glimmering and inviting. Though lacking a powerful voice, she nevertheless has the incisiveness for an arresting “Sie haben Siegfried erschlagen!” lending that scene, bringing a touch in intrigue to this unglamorous role. Hans-Peter König, as Hagen, and Ralf Lukas, as Gunther, are well matched as the half-brothers. König never shouts, as many Hagens do, singing with a dark but pliant, articulate bass.

Valkyries in Tankred Dorst's 2006 production of Der Ring des Nibelungen

Watson’s performance as Brünnhilde eventually reminds us what big shoes she’s trying to fill. Managing to sing with attractive coloration at first in Siegfried, she tires quickly, and her angular leaps and final high C (“Lachender Tod!”) are forced and unfocused. Early in Götterdämmerung she floats some lovely high notes, but by the end of her first duet with Siegfried, they squish and strain.

Toward the end of the Götterdämmerung, Watson seems to pace herself and hold her ground through the final act.  But there is an impression of her darkening the sound to make it appear bigger than it is, distorting its focus. She is even swallowed by the orchestra in a few places - shocking on a recording, and in a house famed for its orchestral and vocal balance.

In her final monologue, the declamatory “Trog Keiner wie Er!” is loud enough, but lacking in steeliness to match the orchestra’s blasts of sound. Through the rest of the final scene, though she copes admirably with the challenges, she scoops into notes, beginning the first note of almost every phrase from below the pitch.

The long orchestral tableaux in Götterdämmerung have plenty of fire, but their primary appeal seems to be the richness of the orchestra’s lower register – brass and lower strings throb and burn throughout this Ring with a truly unique Bayreuth sonority, said to be as much a feature of that theater’s acoustics as the orchestra’s sound. If success in the Ring consisted only of eliciting the most resonant, rich sound, this recording would be among the best.

In Siegfried’s Death, Thielemann does not extend the fourth beats like some conductors, a traditional affectation that has become nearly compulsory. He does however insert a tiny crescendo on those beats, without disturbing the tempo – an tasteful and unobtrusive retouching. Horn calls in the Rhine Journey  are accurate in pitch, but elsewhere the orchestra sounds imprecise and somewhat tired, especially in the cacophonous final bars following Brünnhilde’s monologue.

Wagner completists will welcome the first commercially produced Ring from that Bayreuth Festival in 17 years. This set is important, at the very least, as a document of the company’s current work. More skeptical Wagner fans will need a good reason to add yet another Ring to their shelves. Lengthy applause, including some curtain calls, remains appended to the ends of these live recordings, which some may find distracting at home.

Far from being a divisive figure, Thielemann here is a unifying force on the podium. Worth hearing? Sure. Though it lacks “perfection” in casting, orchestral playing, or sound quality, it has enough success in each to equal a satisfying whole. But Cult God or no, Thielemann can’t carry the entire venture, and Bayreuth’s previous Ring recordings cast a very long shadow. Lacking truly great singers in the principal roles and an orchestra capable of both precision and beautiful sound, this Ring is destined to remain a dwarf among giants.

So we learn from Susan Froemke’s Metropolitan Opera-commissioned documentary about the participants in the final round of the 2007 MetNational Council Auditions, which is out on DVD this month. Our own doyenne reviewed the film when it was screened as an HD theatrical event, and by now many of us know the winners and their work.

Since you are all wondering whether to rush out with $20 in your hands, perhaps a few remarks on the DVD release are in order.

We only first glimpse the competitors in April of 2007, when they have already been invited to the semifinals in New York, having made it through fierce competition in regional auditions. Eleven are chosen for the finals. Why them? How did these get here? As one of the judges tells us, “Making a career in opera is not one in a hundred… It’s one in thousands.” They are looking for singers “who have what it takes, who will make an interesting artist one day.” In other words: why not them?

Froemke has given us a very sensitive and perceptive, but disinterested, film that reveals these young singers in tender and emotionally unpredictable moments, in a competition where the stakes could not be higher. She avoids overdramatizing their plight almost at the expense of her point-of view. The result is grandly-paced documentary, and a voyeuristic pleasure (if that is the word, since it is hard to feel either envy or Schadenfreude for their situation) that plays far above the reality TV bar.

Well, almost. Tenor Michael Fabiano, at 22 the youngest of the singers documented, indulges a cameraman with a diabtribe about the audition process, specifically the tricky business of putting on smiling faces with backstage buddies who are, after all, competitors. Defensive in posture and with something of a chip on his shoulder, he grinds the axe a bit. But it’s hard to hold this against him, since the self-doubt in his rambling is both palpable and understandable under such pressures. And it isn’t likely to detract much from his career either, since he happens to be a spectacularly gifted Verismo tenor, an intuitive artist with amazing power and ping.

But not all singers get to the Met Finals quite so fully formed. The judges are also laying down bets – about whose voices will mature and find a Fach, and who has the personal strength for this punishing career path – in short, who will have staying power.  During a preliminary audition, Alek Shrader, a lyric-leggiero tenor in the Florez/Banks mould, already has the the high c’s and the character for a Nemorino or Almaviva incubating solidly. Alas, during a preliminary audition he has some trouble ending “Una furtiva lagrima” in tune, winding up a half-step flat at the end. Though his face betrays nothing as the accompanist sets down the final chords, it must have been crushing.

But, to tell the truth, in these early coachings, most of the singers are struggling. Many seem awkward displaying much more than the notes, mugging or gesticulating cheaply as they perform an aria out of context and lacking a director’s concept. Maybe it’s just auditions. Or maybe they’re not ready yet, but they’ve got It. How do the judges know?

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“Someone who has something to say. Someone who is connected to the music –what the composer has to say. It’s about communication, not just about singing” is how Jonathan Friend, the Met’s Artistic Administrator, describes his ideal. Gina Lipinsky, a Met vocal coach, echoes him: “Opera is moving away from the idea that a voice is all that matters – everybody is looking for a package.”

One thing this film captures subtly, though vividly, is the extraordinary musical transformation that takes place during their time at the Met. The week spent at the Met preparing for the final audition is as much workshop as competition, because the Met supplies expert coaching, musical and repertoire guidance, and breathing classes. Ryan Smith, Kiera Duffy and Amber Wagner make particular strides.

In the final concert, all seem to have overcome many of the flaws in their earlier singing: voices have opened up; top notes, once crude, now have polish and gleam; music and text have connected; baritones know what to do with their hands. The experience has transformed them into artists, ready for whatever the future holds. Though, even after the winners are announced, that future remains a mystery.

Bonus features included in the DVD include a lively conversation with Renee Fleming, Susan Graham and Thomas Hampson, all once winners of the Met auditions. They reminisce about their experiences as young contestants, and offer advice to aspiring singers on repertoire and audition preparation. Also included is lengthy on-location footage from regional auditions in Texas, where we get a closer look at the weeding-out process, and eavesdrop on some very candid discussions between jury members Friend and Speight Jenkins. The DVD release is region-free, and lasts 157 minutes.

Postscript: One talented and genuine singer from Atlanta, Ryan Smith, sounds rather tight in “Che gelida manina” at the start of this film, but finishes with a triumphant performance that is mature, ardent, and crafty. Ryan was diagnosed with lymphoma not long after being named a winner in the 2007 auditions, and he died in 2008. Though we don’t learn too much about him from the film, his singing was a pleasure to witness, and his death is a tragedy.

The Met has been beat to the US premiere by Sarasota Opera, who offered a Danish-language production in 1995 (which Squirrel saw when he was still just a small squirrel). But this opera is ready for the Big Time, having been produced in recent years at the Bregenzer Festspiele, Salzburger Festspiele, and Covent Garden. So who will get there first, The Met or City Opera?

To hear more, there is a wonderful 1970s recording, recently re-released on Da Capo which is preferable to the later Decca project. The clip below is from the Danish National Opera DVD, also on Da Capo. Enjoy, kære publikum!

UPDATE: A member of the kære publikum has pointed out that Maskarade was indeed given a New York performance by the Bronx Opera in 1983, and reprised in 1999. Thanks for pointing this out. Sarasota still has the American Danish language premiere, and the work still awaits a major US stage with a top professional cast.

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The story is the journey of Verena, tormented by dreams of her illegitimate child who now appears to her as a goblin, searching for redemption. We learn that her own cruel mother killed Verena’s child, and there are dark hints of sexual abuse.  

Verena, too, seeks redemption through love — though, as the song goes, she’s lookin’ in all the wrong places.  Her journey involves a travelling troupe of actors, a mysterious old man named Eckhart, a devious and deviant Count and Countess, and a symbolic magic stone.

In the end, the Count’s henchmen,  trying to kill her lover Friedrich,  stab Verena.  She dies, redeeming all the children’s souls. In the story and the music, one hears hints of Lohengrin (exactly the same first chord), Pelleas et Melisande, Elektra, The Ring, Parsifal, and, yes, Rosemary’s Baby.

It must be said that the opera contains some magnificent musical passages, particularly the orchestral interludes. The prelude to Act III is particularly complex, expressive, and beautiful. Verena’s song about a blind bird in Act I is lyrically lovely, and the Count’s music when he attempts to seduce Verena is particularly haunting and passionate. Much of Verena’s music in Act III, too, is melodic, emotionally clear, and inventive. Unfortunately, these sublime sections are surrounded by pedestrian and uninspired music (particularly in the sections involving the acting troupe), a derivative mess.

The production captured on DVD (Marco Polo MCPO 2220003), directed by Peter T. Pachl for Stadtttheater Furth with the Nuremberg Symphony Orchestra under Frank Strobel, doesn’t help matters. The difficult plot could have been illuminated by a production that looked for clarity, but here we have a heavy-handed attempt at psychological symbolism that only further obscures the story. A geometric “window” hangs in the middle of the stage, serving as a stage set for the actors and a portal through which dreams appear.

We are constantly assaulted with projections, evidently to show us the state of Verena’s mind (we couldn’t get that from the music?) — and, of course, they are the usual suspects: dark clouds, waterfalls, and peering eyes. One set of projections, apparently to set us for the Count’s house in Act II, involves a number of poodles romping about. Are we to think that the leather-clad Count and Countess are dog breeders on the side?

In the pivotal role of Verena, the production happily has the soprano Rebecca Broberg, who gives a nuanced, powerful performance. She is a capable actress and a most expressive singer throughout her range, with excellent phrasing and emotional clarity. I also much liked the dark-voiced Regina Mauel as Verena’s mother Gertrud, though her singing is limited to Act I. The rest of the large ensemble cast was successful in their acting, but the singing ranged from competent to barely tolerable.

It seems to me that this opera might better be approached by hearing an audio recording before viewing this DVD. I found it very difficult to let my imagination respond to the music drama while attempting to decipher so much visual clutter.

The curtain goes up on a rather stodgy looking production by Otto Schenk. The production dates from 1975 and looks it. The costumes throughout the opera are mostly of the color scheme of brown, sage green and burgundy. I was concerned as the curtain rises and we see Johan Botha as Walther pacing back and forth waiting for the church service to end. His very large frame does not permit much movement and his acting is primitive at best, but once he starts singing, you understand why he is there. Throughout the evening, his clear singing is first-rate. He still sounds as fresh when giving us the Prize Song as he does at the beginning of the opera.

Eva, Ricarda Merbeth, is likewise not telegenic. She has a way of producing her sound that distorts her features and makes her appear startled when she sings. It is most unfortunate as her singing is good and she is obviously a musician. She has a bit of a Behrens-like sound with a more pronounced vibrato although without Hildegard’s great insight into character. She was also given the most unattractive yellow dress and hat for the last act. During the final bows, the audience obviously agreed as her ovation was not anywhere near the great adulation accorded of the rest of the cast.

The Magdalene and David of Michaela Selinger and Michael Schade make a fine couple.  She is one of the youngest and prettiest looking Lene’s I’ve seen, and her mezzo-soprano voice was well focused and appealing.  Schade brings his lieder singing expertise to the long section describing the many different rules of singing to Walther. This part of the opera can be a bore, but listening to the subtle musical nuance he brings, I was right there with him for the entire section.

With the entrance of the Meistersingers, we get two of the outstanding performers of this set, Ain Anger as Pogner and Adrian Eröd as Beckmesser. They are both members of the Vienna ensemble and deserve to be much better known. Anger brings great voice, looks and dignity to the role of Pogner. You see and feel his soul searching about offering Eva as a prize in the song contest.

Every time Eröd takes the stage, the performance ratchets up a notch. His is a Beckmesser free of caricature, funny without being offensive. There is also depth. When he enters Sachs’ house in Act III, sits on the stairs and fondles his mandolin, you feel his loneliness. The timbre of his voice sounds more tenor than baritone. Checking his biography, I see he recently introduced his Loge in Vienna to great acclaim, so he may be moving into some of the tenor repertoire.

Falk Struckmann as Hans Sach presents a performer with deep understanding of the man. His voice is a bit worn at this point, but he is in better voice than he was as Wotan at Bayreuth in 2006. His two monologues are definite highlights of the set. His Fledermonologue is exceptional. Here is a man in existential crisis and I was spellbound. When Eva enters, you feel the sense of interruption as you are with him in his thoughts in another space. I re-watched this scene to see if I still had the same impression and I did.

With the start of his Act III “Wahn” monologue, we are once again plunged into darkness and despair. This is lifted artfully when Sachs, who has been seated for much of the time, stands up, opens the window, and lets in the light as the music brightens. His facial expressions as Walther creates his Prize Song in Act III shows a man that sees something exciting and new and wants to help Walther succeed. I was moved by his performance. He begins to tire toward the end of the evening, but with the amount of singing Sachs has in this opera, I was not surprised.

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Act II takes place on the street in front of Pogner’s very large house with Sachs’ workshop on the left side of the stage. Once again, Eröd steals the scene with his entrance to sing his wooing song to Eva. The palpable antagonism between Sachs and Beckmesser is well acted and convincing. As all chaos breaks loose in the last scene, you sit and marvel at how Thielemann keeps this huge ensemble together.

After a moody prelude to Act III, we are in Sachs’ house. The set is reminiscent of Flemish painting with browns dominating in costumes and set. By this point in the opera, all of the performers are on and it is one great scene after another. Merbeth’s lack of charisma really mars her scene with Sachs and the great Quintet. Her singing is not bad, but she lacks the inner radiance that Mattila brings to this role.

As the scene switches to the meadow, we get shots of Thielemann whipping the orchestra into a real frenzy. It is wonderful to watch as he builds momentum for the final scene. The set for the meadow is not nearly as impressive as Schenk’s later production for the Met. The different Guilds of the Apprentices are noted by their costumes, which are a bit on the garish side. The singing of the chorus is of the highest standard throughout especially in the finales of all three acts. Then, we are treated to one of Thielemann’s famous pauses in the “Wach auf” chorus. The chorus sings “Wach” – long pause – “auf”. It is certainly effective!

Eröd once again wows us as Beckmesser mutilates Walther’s song he pilfered from Sachs’ writing desk and then Botha enters and delivers a truly majestic Prize Song. I enjoyed seeing the chorus watch Walther sing this section as they are very engaged in the action of the scene. As Sachs delivers the final section of the opera following Walther’s rejection of the Masters, one cannot erase the fact that what he sings has been tainted by history. His talk of German “Kunst” makes one uncomfortable.

This DVD would not be my first choice for Die Meistersinger. For that I would go with Wolfgang Wagner’s Bayreuth production with Bernd Weikl and Horst Stein conducting or Schenk’s later production at the Metropolitan Opera with James Morris and James Levine. All three are traditional productions.

But if you love Meistersinger, you will want to hear this production for Thielemann’s conducting.