Signora Taigi’s had been a rather successful debut in L’Africaine, or at least that had been my impression. If you don’t believe me, ask La Divina Cieca as she, too, was at the event, perched in her perilously high stilettos, pencil sharpened and scribbling away furiously. This recital then, which was the Vidda Foundation Award Recital as presented by Opera Orchestra of New York, promised to be a closer look of an upfront and personal kind at this engaging and promising young soprano.

Or so I thought.

What I instead encountered was rather a bizarre night of audition showcase arias, songs and scenas, of radically differing types. Now, to be fair, and according to Maestro Queler’s programme note, the aria format was specifically requested by the good people of the Vidda Foundation. Even still, when was the last time you have heard the combination of Lodoletta’s pathetic plea “Flammen perdonami”, followed shortly thereafter not only by “Casta diva”, but then topped off with the Scena Ultima from Il pirata? Divine madness? Not exactly. And that is the least of it, as things became curiouser and curiouser still.

Let me start at the beginning, a very good place to start. The programme commenced with the entry of Ms. Taigi with her accompanist, none other than Maestro Queler, herself. As the soprano glided onto the stage with her platinum blonde hair loosely coiffed, and wearing a dark evergreen floor length satin gown, I noticed a type of mink stole arranged about her shoulders, dyed the exact same shade as the dark green of the gown. Coupled with the ultra-platinum blondined halo, the overall effect struck me not as it had likely been intended, i. e. as Glamour, but as something eerily unnatural and contrived for an effect whose reach had exceeded its grasp. (An aside: Ercole Farnese came to mind, knowing his displeasure in the sighting of the fur-wearing diva.) Wouldn’t a sumptuous Loro Piana cashmere, or an Hermes silk shawl have done just as nicely, I asked myself?

Green mink? For crying out loud, what would Edith Head have said?

The calling-card number was, in effect, the pathetic Lodoletta, an unusual gambit but for me an especially favourite guilty pleasure… notably as sung by Pia Tassinari, Renata Scotto, or Mirella Freni. Ms. Taigi’s rendition was acceptable and marked by its emotive, descriptive interpretative detail and she triumphantly managed not to go flat as most do in this aria. All right then, a decent, if not a thrilling start. She did look a little apprehensive—but who could blame her?

Next, we switched gears by abruptly leaving the italianate veristic idiom, her fur bedecked shoulders now braving the steppes of Georgia. She sang one of my favourite Rachmaninoff songs, “Do not sing, o Beauty, sad songs for me” (“Ne poy, krasavitsa, pri mne” and correct the transliterative spelling, Krunoslav, if it so pleases), which suited the dark and rather mournful timbre of her voice very well. An assisting artist, Erica Kiesewetter (concert mistress of OONY), came onto the stage to play a violin obbligato, a nice touch. Although an abrupt departure from Italian verismo, this song came off very well and showed a marked coming to grips with the voice by the artist. It also possibly gave the a clue as to the necessity of the fur--those frigid, desolate Georgian steppes.

All right then, next stop, Nagasaki! Yes, abruptly back to the Italian lyric veristic stage with the beloved and done to death “Un bel di, vedremo” from Madama Butterfly. The acting out of the aria’s descriptive detailing of Pinkerton’s return was well done if perhaps a bit much, in such intimate settings. The first of a series of alarm bells sounded for me when I saw her gulping for air right before the climactic B flat, at aria’s conclusion. A sour note, shrill and shrieky, the inevitable first sign of her constant intrusion of too much chest voice upon the higher notes (acuti).

Not to be daunted, we now travelled to ancient Gaul to invoke the chaste goddess of the moon, and to turn back in time to the Ur-arci-romanticismo of 1831 Bellini and that irresistible diva-magnet, “Casta diva”. As, patrolling the internet I have come across an example of her singing of this aria last year, in concert, I will allow you to judge.

A far more “live” acoustic in that concert hall, as opposed to that of the Weill Recital Hall helped out, I feel. A nice mezza voce was used in singing the opening phrases and those pesky turns which are splatted in any and all directions or generally approximated, were accurate. Other than an extra breath taken in the series of repeated A’s before the culminative B flat, a rather fluent account of this formidable aria, if not that reminiscent of a full moon-lit night in an oak grove. Somehow or another this cavatina came out better than the Butterfly excerpt—mirabile dictu!—as it is generally the other way around.

After applause for the Lunar Invocation, Ms. Taigi left the stage and another assisting artist, Ms. Melanie Feld, English hornist, accompanied by Maestro Queler, played the glorious opening phrases of Bellini’s “Col sorriso d’innocenza” from the 1827 landmark, “Il pirata”, one of the first successful “mad scenes” and a real tour de force, not to mention another of my guilty pleasures. The English horn is so critical in establishing mood and tone of this scena that I was grateful for the thoughtful preparation of Maestro Queler’s.

Of course as all you Callas queens know, this scene will never be bettered by anyone else! Well, maybe Caballe, but I’ll let you all pull each other’s hair on that one.

Ms. Taigi appeared on stage again, looking notably consternated and slightly like Our Beloved Madame Vera does when she makes an entrance, and launched into a surprisingly successful account of first, the cavatina (without the Caballe/Callas diminuendos and cadenza interpolations) and a very good, if truncated accounting of the fearsome cabaletta, indulging her chest voice in the lower portions, to her fullest contentment. As the climactic note is a C, I was worried about that note but it issued forth all right, as in the first instance it comes by an ascending scale, so the climactic final cry had been secured by the first foray upwards. As Imogene’s plight is sorry indeed, well, an hysterical cry, rather than an elegantly sounded note, is not entirely out of context.

As there is many a Butterfly ascendant in the opera heavens, the fact that she could manage the complicated dramatic fioriture of the cantilena belliniana was heartening to me. Also, her stark dramatic instinct was well used in the depiction of Imogene’s madness, if only slightly veering off into Galupe-Borszkhian territory. At any rate, I was grateful to have heard this wonderful scene, too rarely done.

After a brief intermission, Ms. Taigi reappeared on stage. There had been, in true diva fashion, the requisite change of costume. Thankfully, she had shed the green fur piece. Now she wore a very severe long-sleeved black and white floor length costume. I don’t quite know what effect she was going for but it had a nun’s habit or penitentiary aspect to it, rather severe even for concert stage. A long white sash trailing down to one side seemed to be there as a sort of lifeline by which she could be pulled back to a safe shore.

At this point we were again treated to an Italian opera excerpt, and in my opinion, the most entirely successful one, “Morro, ma prima in grazia” from Verdi’s capolavoro, Un ballo in maschera, with another assisting artist, Eugene Moye at the cello, playing obbligato. In this instance Ms. Taigi seemed to me to be singing with the most fully integrated voice, no chesty sounds and a fluent line. The attack of the cadenza at the end on the C flat was not bad but she swiftly went down into its descending line to land smack back into the full frontal chest voice she so favours and had avoided until then, but did manage to neatly come back up to close the aria with a lovely, long diminuendo, held along with the cello, to create a marvelous effect. This aria eliciting many bravos (sic). It helped, no doubt, that she had recently sung Amelia in Ballo, and apparently successfully, only just last week in New Orleans.

Now we leap continents and genres—to make the mother of all understatements— to travel to Brasil…? Well, that is what the programme says, “Estrellita: Canzone Brasiliana”!!! Poor Mexico:  like Rodney Dangerfield it just doesn’t get any respect! As Manuel Ponce is one of the most famous Mexican composers and his song “Estrellita” his most famous and beloved of all works, I would not have been so perturbed by the “Brasiliana” mistake had it been an obscure Maria Grever song termed “brasiliana” and it should rightfully have said “Cancion mex(j)icana”.

Well, cher readers, this is the climactic turning point when everything slid south—and not just south of the equator “down Mexico way.”

As she began the song (with a teensy South American pronunciation but otherwise good Spanish), she all of a sudden our primadonna went down the stairs off the stage and began singing to various gentlemen in the audience, one in particular, who shall re-appear later. It was all, suddenly last summer, as if we had been magically transferred to the Fontainebleau Hotel on Miami Beach! Well, why not? We’d already traversed the steppes of Georgia, the shimmering druidic groves of Gaul, the hilltop homes of Nagasaki, the palazzi of medieval Agrigento—why indeed not South Beach Salsa, as well?

I dunno, cher reader, how “Estrellita” got into the mix but it must needs be a favourite of someone in the Vidda Foundation. That is the only way I could explain it and its nightclub style presentation. Next stop—Boca Raton Century Village—hey there, you scoffer, if it’s good enough for Charo, it’s good enough for anyone else with chuchi-chuchi!

Now for the finale! What is the obvious follow up to “Estrellita”? Why naturally, that would be a partially sightread “Pace, pace, mio dio”!!! Well, at least the penetential nun’s garb she had on looked appropriate in this number. Sung in a similar manner as the others with another blaring B flat, screamed out as best she could.

Oh merciful heavens, it was over!

Nicht doch! Then came the encores!

Fleeing Leonora’s grotto and flaying for her life, la Taigi gave us, with yet another guest artist, this time a different accompanist, a Mr. Seth Farber (who was in the vent a terrific song stylist and accompanist), relieving Ms. Queler who fled the stage amidst modest protestations that she “couldn’t play that kind of music! Oh gawd, what kind of music are we about to hear? Alban Berg? “Coal Miner’s Daughter?” A bossa nova actually from Brasil?

No, cher readers, it was Gershwin’s “The Man I Love”. Once again, Ms. Casta Diva descended from her dais to serenade, South Beach style, the elder gentlemen of the audience, zeroing in on one corpulent package in particular. I wanted to stand up and shout “Get a room!”  Suddenly the Casta Diva had turned into Billie Holiday!

After this song styling, and it was very good indeed, in nearly perfect English and with the voice smooth, supple and elegant, no chest hanging blaringly out, there was a little speech by her and “the man I love”, who blathered on with a lot of stuff I blocked out as I had long since retreated to my “Safe Place”. After the palavering was over and she had placed him in a seat next to her, on stage, and abruptly went back home to Rome (she is, in fact una romana) and ended the night’s festivities with the Roman Diva par excellence, Floria Tosca, and an average accounting of “Vissi d’arte”, the by now familiarly blaring B flat furled out like a proud, war torn banner, once more. All the while holding on to Baron Scarpia’s hand as she sang. We were waved goodbye and dismissed rather as if at a school assembly.

Poor old Camille was left so dazed and confused by all the above she sought counsel with Mamma Grizzly Cieca, who advised her to write it all down, as a purgative. So here it was.

I’m just no longer sure of Ms. Taigi and what she is about. Apparently, you Londoners will be hearing her in the 2012-13 season as Aida, presumably at Covent Garden. This particular debut was the stated reason why she was unable to accept an offer from the Metropolitan to sing in this season. What does 2012-13 have to do with this season? Thereby becoming curious, I consulted the magical oracle of Operabase, where upon accessing her name, I found nothing listed beyond the 12th of December concert I’d just heard.

To sum up, Chiara Taigi is a stage animal. She has an expressive voice. She is House of Gelb camera-worthy (thank you, NN). She really has it all except that thing no singer can really do without, the “ligne de chant” (thank you, oedipe). She tries too hard for arty effects before establishing a real, even, and dynamic line that projects easily into the house. As I said above, the Weill Hall acoustics were probably not accommodating to her voice. Therefore, one is left hanging, much as one does with Poplavskaya, wondering what will happen on every note.

As Daniela Dessi and Barbara Frittoli, the only Italian sopranos of rank who regularly export to the States are now at their respective sell-by dates, I had set great hopes on this lady, from her one appearance in AF Hall as L’Africaine. Now I think, unless she learns to sing more cleanly and evenly, it is possible that her shelf life may be similarly limited and that is a shame. Perusing an extended scena of the finale of Suor Angelica, which she sang for RAI with Riccardo Chailly, I have jolted into an awareness of those constantly effort-filled and screamed out high notes. Of course, bad singing never stopped anyone, if they want to just emote. Look at Billie Holiday. Somehow, though, I think I’d rather listen to Billie, ’cause even senza voce, what she manages to communicate seems somehow more “real” to me, whereas Signora Taigi is teetering troublesomely over into the land of self-parody. A land already inhabited and expertly handled by the magnificent Madame Vera, who expresses in her parody, her palpably real and profound love and devotion to her Art.

For now, I’ll stick with Madame Vera when I want to see Divine Madness. At least, she’s the Real Deal. I’m sure you’d never catch her in a saloon in South Beach, or God forbid, Boca Raton, America’s rudest city.

Thank you for your attention, all my many dear associates of parterre, and my even more numerous frenemies and enemies. Camille has now taken her purgative and feels better and will now recline in the sanctity of Leonora’s grotto, which she has spruced up to resemble Venusburg. Hey, why not? It’s a do-what-you-feel-like-doing kinda world these days, innit?

There’s a rule of camp that dear Susan Sontag unfortunately isn’t around to codify these days, and so La Cieca is just going to have to make it up make it up herself. A single instance of tasteless mawkishness of course counts as kitsch. But when kitsch is multiplied by kitsch, e.g., a cheesy song is performed in an overblown manner, the two kitsches cancel out and what is left is either boring or supreme camp. (It’s like one of those quadratic equations where there are always two answers to the problem, often one positive and one negative.)

So let’s try to puzzle it out. Dame Kiri singing anything these days has a strong kitsch quotient, as does a Heggie setting of just about any text that has to do with subjects other than surfing nuns. (A Heggie setting of a Sr. Helen Prejean text about the existential experience of surfing is obviously and unarguably camp.) But, again, no surfing nuns this time, so, the product of two kitsches is camp. (One does, however, suddenly dream of a Regie production of Master Class in which La Divina is depicted as a nun on a surfboard: what a metaphor for the central conflict of her life!)

Next, McNally writing anything is kitsch, and by now Master Class is so overdone (with even a Faye Dunaway movie version eternally in the works), that any exposure of the play is kitsch. (Exception: the Tyne Daly version directed by Stephen Wadsworth: mannered actress miscast in a cheap text with a fussy director, that’s a quadrangle of kitsch and so, by the rule, should be camp. But I’m still not going to go see it.)

Anyway, we have so far (Kiri*Heggie) * (McNally * Master Class), which works out to “camp.” The situation is complicated by the fact that this event took place in Tulsa and Heggie himself accompanied, and La Cieca doesn’t know how to factor in the fact that Dame Kiri shared the stage with Frederica von Stade. This mezzo is, as we know, never kitsch (not even in Three Decembers) and camp only when she chooses to be.

It’s no use, the values aren’t precise enough to yield a non-trivial answer about all this triviality. So La Cieca is simplify matters and say that, given Dame Kiri’s track record as Verdi’s courtesan, her singing or even speaking the line “The sun will not fall down from the sky if there are no more Traviatas” should rank as one of the purest and most hilarious examples of camp in that serene lady’s seemingly infinite career, right up there with the underwear-throwing lawsuit and that hat she wore at the royal wedding.

As she often (not always) does, La Cieca invites the cher public to offer YouTube examples of how kitsch applied to kitsch can rise to the level of camp.

Loyal parterrian Jondrytay (not pictured) looked in on the Royal Opera’s Anna Nicole and shared this thoughts on his blog Not So Wunderbar.

“What? No, I meant because Mark Adamo’s writing The Gospel of Mary Magdalene for the San Francisco Opera! Why, what ‘mary’ did YOU think I was referring to?” [Daniel Stephen Johnson]

Actually, it’s not quite as horrific as what happened to poor Lauren Bacall—by which I mean starring in this stinkeroo:

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.

My enthusiasm is genuine because the new Lyric Opera production (owned by San Francisco) of Un ballo in maschera Monday, November 15 was positioning itself as The Crowd Pleaser of the season—a starry cast, including local favorites and a beloved soprano-cum-stage director; a Verdi Opera that people recognize in a traditional staging; and a show with Two Intermissions.  I personally adore Frank Lopardo, the Riccardo, and have been cheering for his career no matter which wrong turn it takes.

So I am happy at the start of the show and Lopardo does not let me down in the first act.  Renata Scotto immediately lets the audience know that her goal for every important melody is to get the singer downstage, front and center, and when they arrive there, you listen because it is an aria is about to start. I wish all directors signaled us like that. It feels very baroque. This is the way La Scotto probably likes to be directed herself, and  it makes me imagine the greats of the past fitting neatly into her blocking…

Uh-oh, I am thinking about  Bergonzi in this role just as my once-pin-up Frank is about to launch into “La rivedrà.”   But Lopardo can pull this one off easily and with élan. Even though the voice doesn’t brighten in the middle, and the passaggio notes are mucousy, the phrasing is graceful and conveys the appropriate ardor. It is Ardor Lite. The first scene is a triumph for him. The stretta “Ogni cura si doni al diletto” is rhythmic in a way that suggests his coloratura virtuosity of yore. He practically dances in place and I swoon.

Mark Delavan’s Renato sounds like The American Verdi Baritone vintage 2010, by which I mean that he is reliable, knows when to be generous with the phrasing and always sings at a minimum mezzo forte. Delavan vaults his instrument over the passaggio  and always lands on two feet. It is an instrument that teleprompts its technique. The physical gestures are stock, the body language rigid. This is a singer who needs a director who will give him very specific movements. Or yoga. But he is reliable. Isn’t that a nice thing to say about somebody?

Then Kathleen Kim gets her first moment.  What is there to say about this singer?  Oscar is a role tailor-made for her physical stature (less than five feet?) and her voice-type. Hers reminds me of a Laser Pointer Pen with the wrong battery installed. She is a local darling  in Chicago as an alumna of the Ryan Center. What a thrill for this audience to welcome her home after her Met HD broadcast as Olympia? She could do no wrong here and everybody wants to take her home and  hang Christmas stockings with her name embroiderd on them.

Ulrica’s lair is being pushed on stage and there is a noticeable buzz of content in the darkened theater. The curtain rises and we are in the Sorceress scene of Dido and Aeneas with the acolytes  undulating “grotesquely” around immutable Ulrica and her brew.  So much camp and I heart it.   The aria begins and for the first time this entire season, Lyric Opera audiences get their ears cleaned.  It is like we all simultaneously put on hearing aids. Language. Pure vowels.  Ground shaking chest tones and top notes that fill your sinuses.

I am not always in the camp of Stephanie Blythe, but on this night (and the time I heard her sing Fricka at the Met) I am blown away by her voice.  How validating that the singer who keeps Classical and Baroque roles in the repertoire is the one who sounds most like a Verdi heroine!  Stephanie Blythe stole the show and everybody knows it.

The  appeal of Sondra Radvanovsky is obvious. She is tall with a beautiful face and  a body that will fit into many costumes; and has a recognizable tone quality tinged with pathos.  I understand why so many fans have invested their hope in her Verdi heroines. The voice has an even vibrato from top to bottom and there is no problem hearing her in the second-largest opera house in North America. When she needs to switch to the next gear, she proves that she has sound in reserve. But I don’t like that particular sound. Personal taste. Don’t hate me. For me, the voice is under a veil and the diction in lazy at best.

From the exit of Ulrica, my appreciation of this production wanes.  Lopardo reminds us of his great skill as a comedian, a natural clown, in disguise as a sailor. It is his best moment.  The love duet goes well because it is top shelf Verdi and Lopardo still has stamina to match the fresher sounding Radvanovsky. Weaknesses in the staging become distracting.  Riccardo pleads to Amelia on bended knee, arms outstretched in a way that can only mean Grand Opera or “I am about to catch a  huge beach ball!”

In act three, the betrayed Renato keeps pointing at the floor when he threatens Amelia. “You are going to clean these floors, woman!”  The trio with Sam and Thomas delivers all three singers downstage center, their hands homoerotically stacked on one sword. As for Amelia, the big aria sounds unrehearsed.  After the poignant cello solo, Ascher Fisch starts the oom-pahs at an impossibly slow tempo and I am waiting for Radvanovsky to literally die in the middle of this aria. Did she forget the words? Does she know that she came in early there? No matter, a beautifully shaped cadenza with effective mezze di voce gives the Radvanovskyists the evidence they need to anoint her as queen.

The saddest part is the third act. Lopardo alone at his desk, nothing else on the candlelit stage. One of the best opportunities for a tenor in the entire canon.  He  doesn’t make it. After a convincing accompagnato, the cantibile “Ma se m’è forza perderti” reveals that this great Rossinian has been wearing the mask of a Verdi Lyric Tenor.  The voice falls off the fundamental. The rest of the opera is sung  almost sotto voce.  I am heart broken and I want to rush the stage and hand him a Coca-Cola.  The irony of his own words in the program notes!

This role requires pacing. I take a very lyric approach to it. I don’t sing like a dramatic tenor. The last-act aria freaks some tenors out, but I don’t have that feeling—actually, I can’t wait to get there because it lies right where I live. The character is someone who throws caution to the winds at every turn. Because he’s a tenor, he sings wonderful music, but he’s also to blame for the opera’s outcome, which he brings upon himself.

This performance is recommendable. Something about these melodies and even a sufficient cast manages to stir the heart. I still love you Frank, even though I spied on you in Facebook and suspect that you are a staunch Republican. I still listen to your amazing Lindoro and Almaviva.  And I still cherish my Bergonzi-Price-Verrett-Grist-Merrill Ballo. And I look forward to another Blythe Sings Verdi production here in Chicago.  It will probably be as Amneris to Radvanovsky’s Aida. I will relish seeing Blythe tell her “I am the daughter of the pharaohs and I am your rival!”

[Photos: Dan Rest/Lyric Opera of Chicago]

Now La Cieca has an answer for you young queens. Look no further! Camp, with a capital C, is coming to a Broadway theater near you—soon! Or, uh, anyway—eventually!

And—oh, wait for it—the reprise bringing down the first act curtain!

Attila is like a self-conscious stroll down Rodeo Drive – or even worse, to the Mall of America – reducing an opera about ruthless tyranny brought down by ruthless vengeance to a quaint and insipid fashion show.

Directed by Pierre Audi and with costumes and sets by Miuccia Prada and Herzog and de Meuron, the Met’s first-ever production of Attila is a disheartening flop for the company at a time of transition in their approach to Opera as Theater. Virtually every detail of this production could be gleaned from the production stills reproduced in the mainstream media — indeed, this production is like a Powerpoint™ presentation of Attila that could accompany a radio broadcast. And in spite of Riccardo Muti‘s inspired conducting, there’s little justification for mounting this dog of an opera on the Met stage in the first place.

And what happens on the stage? Practically nothing. An obscure, violent opera with a dodgy plot and relatively unmemorable music can be an opportunity for a director to let loose with a big, entertaining concept. But this production team is a committee of star egos, and director Pierre Audi’s hands seem to be tied by designers run amok, too self absorbed to contribute meaningfully to Attila’s theatrical possibilities.   Thus Audi’s direction has no teeth, leaving his haplessly awkward cast with park-and-bark “Verdi opera poses” of a classic Met vintage.

The dream team was very likely assembled under the strong hand of Muti, who has recently been coddled in New York like he’s the Second Coming of Christ. (His concerts with the New York Philharmonic this week have been headed off with text messages and emails announcing there will be no late seating and imploring us to “please arrive on time!”)*

Musically, Attila fares fine.  Many will be intrigued to hear choral writing that looks forward to Aida, especially in the grand choruses, and the Priestesses’ harp-accompanied scene upon which Aida’s Sacerdotesse are modeled. The Act Three orchestral introduction is cut from the same mould as the beautiful prelude before the third act of Rigoletto, and is equally magical in effect.  Yes, Attila has nice moments, but they are the same moments found in Verdi’s other, more enduring, works.

The singing has been mostly competent, with no revelatory performances but also little cause for protest. The conducting: genius, of course: Riccardo Muti has been received with an almost irrational fervor.  He is certainly a great conductor, especially in the Verdi repertoire, and he shapes this score into something resembling a musical event. The short, elegiac prelude bloomed with a rich legato rarely heard here, even under the exacting and often inspired baton of James Levine. The numerous indistinguishable arias and cabalettas were accompanied with uncommonly energetic polish and precision, and dramatic choral scenes moved with a grace and power for which Muti is now recognizable.

But while Muti’s judgment on musical matters is mostly beyond reproach, it is hard to imagine what he was thinking when he assembled this team including set designers Herzon and De Meuron. Their sets, while visually striking, reveal the cerebral, myopic vision of professional star-chitects. The post-apocalyptic concrete rubble of the Prologue, with its angular, rugged neatness, is a vague visual cliché of contemporary urbanism much like the lush, green terrarium seen in the rest of the opera is a conceit of leafy city parks.

The set is the dubious star of the opera, so large and cumbersome that the cast is forced to perform on a narrow catwalk, swallowed by the dimensions of their surroundings. Breaking the Met’s stage into horizontally paneled partitions (using the Met’s hydraulic lift,) it is effective in showing Venice’s origins from the depths of ruin in the second part of the Prologue. But throughout Acts 1-3, they take one of the tallest and deepest stages in New York and reduce it to a crowded, two-dimensional scaffold.

Under these conditions, Audi has little room to work. Poor Samuel Ramey, in his walk-on as the Bishop, who was given no instructions except to literally walk on, stand in a waiting spotlight, and wave the cross. Then in the final scene, in one of the only glimpses of Personenregie, Odabella and her co-conspirators play an extended game of hide-the-sword from a suspicious – yet remarkably unguarded – Attila, who is handily stabbed to death. Except for the set, this inept Attila could be the Sonia Frisell Aida from 1988.

I hate to give Prada’s inept costumes any undue scrutiny, but they serve as a wonderful metaphor for this image-conscious yet ultimately lifeless production. The best bit, Odabella’s Bride-of-Frankenstein beehive, almost seems like an attempt at high-camp expressionism (an approach which would have made for an entertaining evening!) But she doesn’t manage to carry this idea. Instead, we get soldiers in tshirts with the sleeves rolled up, skinny pants and boots, industrial trench coats, distressed cotton, and double-breasted fur waistcoats.

And what of those models? We learned a few months ago that Prada, frustrated with her zaftig supernumeraries (“I cannot clothe them!”), insisted on actual models for the mute parts of the imprisoned Italian slave girls. In the Sacerdotesse scene in Act Two, she clothes the fat, embarrassing chorus in denim and dim lighting (as though they were her frumpy family members we’ve not yet met) who sing the part while wispy models in couture mime the scene above. It is a tacit admission that she has neither the interest nor the skill to work as a theater costumier, and that she views this project merely as an advertisement for her next overpriced dress.

Some will say that calling Attila a failure for the Met is unfair. They will say that bringing Muti to the Met was a triumph, and if his idiosyncrasies guided this production more than Peter Gelb’s vision for the house, it is a reasonable trade-off.

But Attila is one of only a handful so far in Gelb’s tenure featuring a prominent and respected European director at the helm. Patrice Chéreau’s From the House of the Dead, a resounding success, was created elsewhere and unpacked virtually ready-made. Luc Bondy’s ugly but innocuous Tosca opened the season by breaking all the rules while seeming oddly watered-down.

Perhaps this Attila could have revealed the innately theatrical qualities in haute couture — or brought an architect’s sense of trompe l’oeil to draw the spectator into something magical. A one-dimensional tyrant like Attila is particularly in need of a strong creative team to lend him complexity or — barring that — raw power. Neither happened. Sometimes when things don’t look very good on paper, it’s for a reason. So don’t be surprised when this Hun hits the clearance rack faster than last year’s military-inspired utility vest.

*Never mind that this is an ordinary concert, presumably with an intermission between Brahms’s First Piano Concerto and Hindemith’s Symphony in E Flat. If you ever wanted to know what it was like to be chastised by Gustav Mahler for entering the Vienna Opera after the overture has begun, now’s your chance!

(Photo: Ken Howard, Metropolitan Opera)

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.

The raison d‘être of this particular showcase is undoubtedly the most polarizing contemporary opera singer, and whether you love her or hate her, a new Metropolitan Opera DVD of Thaïs is likely to reinforce your opinion

Acclaimed tenor/baritone/conductor/Live in HD host Plácido Domingo sets the scene on the Metropolitan Opera’s production of Massenet’s Thaïs in his pre-show introduction. After sharing that he’d love to sing the male lead but can’t because it’s a baritone role (this was filmed in 2008, pre-Simon Boccanegra; perhaps now he’ll give it a shot), he gravely intones: “And now, Renée Fleming in… Thaïs.”

An endless scene and a half transpires before the above-the-title lady in question finally makes her grand — and stunningly gowned — entrance, but to be sure when she does finally appear everyone onstage screams “Thaïs!” just in case we might have otherwise missed her. Fleming is not an exact physical fit for the role; her blond, dimpled good looks are more suggestive of a regional beauty queen (Miss Indiana? Pennsylvania, perhaps?) than the impossibly gorgeous and exotic lust object the libretto is constantly reminding us Thaïs is.

But her singing is mostly strong and accurate — and, for the most part, refreshingly free of the bad habits that earned her the nickname La Scoopenda. The bulk of the role lies in a comfortable soprano mid-range that suits her voice, and she handles many of the higher notes with grace and musicality. Her interpretation of “Dis-moi que je suis belle” at the beginning of Act 2 is a particularly moving and well-sung performance sure to please her fans. She only resorts to screaming at the very end of act 3, where Massenet wrote a repeated phrase escalating to high D (finally settling to a pianissmo high A) that could confound almost any soprano without a superhuman instrument. Even then she hits the correct pitches with at least fifty percent accuracy.

As for acting, the character of Thaïs is so ridiculous – a wanton prostitute (excuse me, “disciple of Venus”) so successful at her trade that the entire community riots when she decides to give it up and join a convent – that the production and Fleming settle for creating a series of Diva Moments rather than trying to make the character seem real.

She mounts a ramp just to sing a single high C, then skitters back down to give Athanael the least romantic kiss seen at the Met since Karita Mattila licked the head of John the Baptist! She caps an aria by hugging herself and beaming adorably as the Met audience showers her with applause! She throws herself on a bed and laughs hysterically — then her laughter turns abruptly to weeping! She cackles; she burns incense; she waves her arms over her head!

Fleming’s musicality is strong enough to transcend this nonsense, but she does seem to have a gay old time playing a singing Theda Bara. However, those perpetual dramatic indulgences are a cinch to make the production more appealing for devotees of camp.

Thomas Hampson sings the role of Athanaël, which offers roughly equal stage time to the soprano part but far less musical or dramatic interest. Athanaël is a bit of a Norman Maine/Stedman Graham role – even when Thaïs is not onstage, he’s always going on about her -- but Hampson sings it beautifully, though perhaps his Athanaël would be more compelling if his singing reflected more of the character’s emotional turmoil. His acting skills are much more problematic, especially in close-up. His dramatic interpretation is limited to two emotions: tormented (this involves brow-furrowing) and boyishly gleeful (“Look, ma, I’m singing!”). Neither facial expression offers much insight into Athanaël’s tortured attempts to reconcile his love of Jesus with his lust for Thaïs.

Concertmaster David Chan offers the musical highlight of the DVD with a brilliant interpretation of the famous violin “Meditation” between the scenes of Act Two. The composition is undoubtedly the most beautiful melody in the opera -- Massenet liked it so much he repeated it almost non-stop for the third act as well -- and Chan gives an emotional performance that traces Thaïs’s difficult journey from the empty glamour of sin to the simplicity of saintly living. The Meditation is the one moment in the entire opera with true emotional resonance; it’s impossible not to be disappointed when it ends and the curtain rises on yet another closeup of Tom Hampson’s scowl.

John Cox’s physical production is a potpourri of Art Deco and period elements – dreadlocks for Athanaël and his fellow monks, Roaring Twenties costumes for Thaïs’s decadent circle of friends. The sets are mostly spare desert scenes or under-furnished interiors with the exception of the palace set in Act 2, a disaster in gold plate (even the palm tree sparkles!) that suggests Brighton Beach more than the banks of the Nile. The Christian Lacroix gowns for Thaïs are the one visually stunning element of the production; even the robe she wears to walk across the desert until her feet bleed is a stylishly draped off-the-shoulder number. Jesus López-Cobos (“my countryman,” Domingo helpfully reminds us in the introduction) conducts a dignified, nuanced reading of the score by the typically excellent Met orchestra.

The only special feature is a compilation of the intermission interviews that aired during the original HD broadcast. We are granted the opportunity to hear Domingo repeatedly pronounce Massenet as though it rhymed with “bassinet,” learn a bit about the costumes, and discover that Fleming is particularly fond of Thaïs’s Act 2 aria because it addresses the uncomfortable but eternal truth that “youth fades.” The (sadistic?) director chooses a tight close-up of the star for this interview, but it must be said that whatever you think about Renée Fleming in Thaïs, the diva looks good.

While we wait for Mme. Borodina’ recovery, let’s enjoy Madeline Kahn in an obscure Cole Porter ditty.

Oh, pardon me, cher public, but you know how La Cieca gets. Anyway, let’s meet to discuss the Met broadcast of Vanessa, starting at 1:00 this afternoon.

• Find a radio station
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• The libretto

The usual suspects no doubt will tend to gather at La Casa della Cieca.

An appropriate feeling of uncertainty and discovery accompanied the audience through the darkened Museum of Natural History as we were led down one hall, then another, then to an elevator, then through antechambers and lobbies, before finally reaching the spacey landscape of the planetarium.

Even as the orchestra tuned up, it was evident that their  sonority was choked by the deadened acoustics of the room, and the sound wilted like flora in an oxygen-deprived greenhouse. It seemed self-defeating to stage this work amid such logistical constraints, in exchange for the few benefits of having planetarium technology at the ready. Working with a small staging area, the performance was given essentially “in the round,” with audience spread widely around the cramped, domed auditorium. But imagination and musicality flourished in spite of these constraints.

Haydn’s opera is one of several in existence based on the libretto by Carlo Goldoni, the influential Venetian playwright whose works bear a beguiling yet piquant humanist message. The story concerns a plot by several youngsters of both high and low standing to win the hand of aristocrat Buonafede’s beautiful daughters. The fake astronomer Ecclitico, knowing Buonafede to be a gullible fool, sells him a phony trip to the moon by giving him a potion that that is really a sleeping agent. When he awakens, the youths put on an elaborate hoax, welcoming him to the “moon” and satisfying the whims of his wild imagination. Once he is putty in their hands, they secure his blessing to wed.

The inventive and impressively efficient staging, by Diane Paulus (of Broadway’s Tony-winning Hair) utilized a campy sense of sass and double-entendre that also had a winning spark of romance. Though she never stooped to dodgy, tasteless humor, she certainly relied on some flimsy gags, such as the anachronistic nightclub dancing that broke out in virtually every orchestral interlude. Still, there were cute innuendoes in the recitatives, and admirably balanced comedic hi-jinx with warm generosity and theatrical aplomb.

The outrageously complex physical blocking used three tall, rolling scaffolds to hoist the cast up into the audience’s line of sight, using the projections dome as a canvas. As supers moved the scaffolds, the costumed cast moved with a floating quality that perfectly matched Haydn’s lithe, buoyant phrases. Silly neon-lit costumes distracted a bit from the planetarium dome’s constellations during the Moon scenes, but acrobatic supernumeraries and complex set changes moved in jaw-dropping synchronicity with the lighting and projection work by Philip Bussmann.

Voices did not bloom in the unforgiving space, but neither were they distorted. Marco Nisticò, on loan from the Met, was a pitch-perfect comedic buffo and his dark, pliant bass-baritone shone well from top to bottom. Young tenor Nicholas Coppolo, somewhat strained in the higher register, created a stylish and dapper Ecclitico, showing both musicality and wide emotional range.

Hanan Alattar (Clarice) offered gentle but impassioned phrases of clarity and restraint. It was a pity that the padded room failed to flatter her seductive and elegant lyricism. So too Flaminia, sung by Albina Shagimuratova, who sometimes sounded thin and squeaky in spite of an impressive and bell-like coloratura top. Lisette, sung by mezzo-soprano Rachel Calloway, had the least presence of this uniformly young and light-voiced cast, but she hammed up her sexy French-maid shtick with comely enthusiasm.

Haydn’s opera was given in a cut-down 90 minute version without intermission. The evocative, yet economical and fleet score has moments of chiaroscuro that compare favorably with Mozart’s Cosi fan tutte. Gotham Music Director Neal Goren led a tasteful if overly cautious reading, intuitively supporting his cast through difficult transitions made even trickier by the awkward layout of the theater. He was particularly successful in the finely-blended ensemble finales, momentarily filling the room with an impressively large and impassioned sound that did not lack for precision and style.

This Gala fundraising premiere was attended by a star-studded and well-dressed crowd of older, tony elites mixed with downtown arts-scene denizens, all of whom arrived and departed in cheerful spirit. One hopes this success will serve their ambitions and spur more stylish and inventive productions of such high musical and theatrical quality.

It was one small step for space; one giant leap for Gotham Chamber Opera.

Klaus Florian Vogt in Stefan Herheim's Lohengrin at the Berlin State Opera. "If you can't handle ambivalence, stay away from Wagner!" warns reviewer Per-Erik Skramstad

There is also a video!

Pentiti!

I finally had a chance to see the new Don Giovanni at City Opera, which closed today. Since Ercole Farnese wrote an excellent review of the premiere for parterre, I’ll be brief.

What I did encounter, though boobless, was rather a surprise: a rigorous and excellently thought-out presentation by Christopher Alden, and probably one of my best experiences at City Opera in recent years.

It is somewhat ironic that in spite of all the sex in the plot, Don Giovanni is not a particularly sensual opera, musically or otherwise. Its primary theme is honor. It functions only secondarily as a morality play with mildly puritanical overtones, which Alden accentuated by inventing a 20th-century setting and vaguely Frontier aesthetic. The excellent costumes, by Therese Wadden, suggested the depression-era American south, with lots of cheap wool and rumpled fedoras. (Squirrel couldn’t help but be reminded of this, but most of all this.) Friends, it really worked.

Alden has fascinating and  thoughtful solutions to the thorniest dramatic problems in the piece. Rather than tidying up scenes that ask the audience to suspend their disbelief, he went the other way, placing characters on stage together who were not privy to one another’s dialogue, and making “asides” out of certain lines, which created an atmosphere of irony and disbelief that softened much of what today reads as camp. One of many examples is Don Ottavio (Gregory Turay) sitting onstage through the judgment scene, as if willing his vengeance to completion, though we know he does not attend the dinner.

Daniel Okulitsch inhabits the Don perfectly, and gave even Peter Mattei a run for his money. Of the others in this uniformly good cast, special notice should go to Kelly Markgraf, who sang Masetto with a wonderfully resonant, clear, and colorful baritone, and could have excelled in the title role.

Remember when a certain G___ M___ was going to become the General Manager of this company, and some predicted a kind of competition between City Opera and Peter Gelb‘s Met for forward-thinking, theatrically viable opera? Well, based purely on this production, i would say it’s on!

“I want to be judged for my music and nothing but my music.” This phrase, which Mascagni himself wrote to his publisher Sonzogno, is the key to understanding the very essence and existence of L’amico Fritz (1891).

Cavalleria rusticana, Mascagni’s first performed opera, had premiered the previous year to astonishing success, and had instantly catapulted him to the top sphere of the musical world. Virtually overnight he had become a true international celebrity. Women swooned over his youth and good looks. Hordes of young men rushed to the barber to have the so-called “capelli alla Mascagni”, a sort of pompadour.

A good part of the intelligentsia was nonetheless trying to belittle the composer’s merits, ascribing most of Cavalleria’s triumph to its literary source, Giovanni Verga’s seminal and popular homonymous short novel, and later theatrical play. Consequently Mascagni, for his follow-up to Cavalleria rusticana, purposely set out to prove his talent by looking for a source of modest literary value.

Sonzogno suggested L’Ami Fritz, a sentimental novel by Emile Erckmann and Alexandre Chatrian, two French authors who specialized in stories taking place in their native Lorraine and nearby Alsace, and who found a vast readership among the French middle classes. It took five people, including the composer himself, to fashion a libretto Verdi did not hesitate to define “scemo”, a rather strong word meaning dumb, stupid. But that’s exactly what Mascagni was looking for: a silly plot unable to overshadow his music.

The story takes place in the Alsatian countryside in the mid 19^th century. The protagonist is a wealthy landowner, Fritz Kobus, who is presented as a confirmed bachelor and misogynist at the beginning of the opera. During the course of three acts, thanks in part to the machinations of a matchmaker rabbi, he falls in love with Suzel, the teenaged daughter of his country estate manager; obviously, the girl secretly already loves him, and a happy end is assured.

The homey atmosphere, the bucolic nature of the story and the insubstantial plot contribute to temper Cavalleria’s energy and outburst, without repudiating the composer’s personality. Mascagni may have subdued Cavalleria’s extreme conflicts, but his ardent spirit is still simmering below the surface, and flashes of it erupt especially in the third act.

L’amico Fritz’s music is anything but conservative. It is on the contrary more audacious and daring than Cavalleria. The Preludietto to the first act, peppered with irksome parallel thirds and sixths, is already indicative of the diffused tonal ambiguity, and bold rhythmical and metrical fluctuation that permeates the whole score. Another example: Suzel’s ballade “Bel cavalier” is a mere two minutes of music where seven changes of keys are found in 57 measures, and the result is an undeniably unsettling feeling.

Immediately after the Cherry Duet, the music illustrating the arrival of the rabbi and Fritz’s friends in a carriage is an unmistakable and amusing parody of Alfio’s entrance in Cavalleria.

The opera received considerable popular and critical praise. The usually stern critic Hanslick found it a work of genius. Franchetti considered it more original than Cavalleria; Catalani was astonished at its musical unconventionality (always relative to the Italian opera of the time, obviously) and called some its tricks “diabolical”. Mahler saw it a progressive work and regularly directed it.

Audiences adored it. In Italy L’amico Fritz remained part of the standard repertoire of every opera house, at least until War World II. There was not a single lyric or di grazia tenor who did not consider it one of his war horses: Fernando De Lucia (who created it, opposite Emma Calvè as Suzel), Tito Schipa, Agostino Lazzari, Beniamino Gigli, Ferruccio Tagliavini, Cesare Valletti, all cherished the title role.

In the post-war period its performances dwindled. Tastes were changing, and after his death in 1945 at the age of 82, he, along with all his contemporaries, came to be regarded as relics of the past. There were political reasons as well. In 1932 he had become a member of the Fascist Party. Although there is evidence proving that he did it only out of convenience, he nevertheless allowed himself to be exploited by the Fascist propaganda as one of the most prominent symbols of “italianity.”

His last opera, Nerone, was widely perceived as a tribute to Fascist imperialism: the première was supposed to take place inside the Coliseum, but at the last moment this didn’t work and it was staged at La Scala. Even L’amico Fritz suffered a sort of censorship during Mussolini’s regime: after the racial laws were enforced, David the rabbi became simply “a doctor.” (Tagliavini in the 1941 recording conducted by Mascagni addresses David as “o buon dottore” instead of “o buon rabbino.”)

Mascagni’s operas, with the obvious exception of Cavalleria rusticana, were undeniably set aside in the new democratic climate. Even so, L’amico Fritz has never disappeared from the Italian opera houses. Smaller companies have especially been keen on staging it, because it is an inexpensive opera to produce. No costly sets are required, and it is easy to cast with young artists. In the rest of the world, on the other hand, it almost went the way of the Dodo.

Recording companies took very little interest in it. In addition to the 1941 Cetra release starring Tagliavini, his then wife Pia Tassinari and conducted by Mascagni himself, the only studio recording is the 1968 EMI edition with Luciano Pavarotti and Mirella Freni, with Gavazzeni on the podium. Other notable live recordings published on LP or CD include a 1951 performance from Naples, another “family affair” with a senior but still excellent Gigli (joined unfortunately by his daughter, the acidulous Rina); a 1953 Cetra live recording with Valletti and Rosanna Carteri and a 1963 performance from La Scala with Gianni Raimondi and Freni. In 2002 a DVD was released of a performance from Mascagni’s birthplace, Livorno, with Josè Bros and Dimitra Theodossiu. Of course there could be other live recordings of which I am not aware.

Excerpts of the opera, the Cherry Duet above all, have been regularly performed and recorded. The standards-bearer is still the one with Schipa and Favero but there are also a few oddballs, such as Cecilia Bartoli with Pavarotti, or Magda Olivero with Claudio Villa, the “reuccio” (or little king, by virtue of his diminutive height) of Italian melodic pop of the ‘50s.

Now Deutsche Grammophone is trying to fill the gap in L’amico Fritz’s scarce discography with this brand new recording, taped live in 2008 at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, starring Roberto Alagna and Angela Gheorghiu. The acclaimed duo has over the past decade embraced the cause for this work. Considering their highly publicized conjugal woes and impending divorce, it is ironic that their presumably last joint project involves an opera that is nothing but a crescendo towards the two protagonists’ marriage. As I hinted before, another famous operatic couple who had sung this opera very frequently, Tagliavini and Tassinari, also ended up in divorce.

I have some reservations about Alagna. The role of Fritz is not exceptionally demanding; its main difficulty consists in its lying on the passaggio, particularly in the third act, where the orchestra becomes louder. Here the French tenor demonstrates that he is still uncertain as to how to deal with those thorny notes between E and G above middle C. The F-sharp, perhaps the trickiest note in any tenor’s voice, is within the same aria (“O amore, o bella luce del cor”) resolved in several different ways: sometimes open and spread, sometimes covered, and sometimes (on the exposed phrase “possente ognor”) the tenor starts it covered and then opens it, to crude effect.

Although, as written, Fritz’s highest note is a B flat, Alagna joins Gheorghiu in an unwritten – for the tenor – high C in the third act duet (in hindsight, perhaps an attempt to upstage her, and overshadow the only chance she has in this opera to show off that money note?). Truth be told, that high C is a very good one indeed.

Mr. Alagna’s tone is grainy and lacks the sweetness that so much of his music requires. He doesn’t float his pianissimos with the same grace and ease of most of the tenors I have mentioned. Most of all, he is allergic to portamentos, which are essential in this repertoire, if used discreetly and tastefully. The Cherry Duet is in part marred by the relative shortage of his dynamic range, and especially by the falsetto (as opposed to a true pp mezza voce) he employs in the last few measures, on the upward linear interval G -G #- A. What’s more, in that very same spot, while Gheorghiu correctly sings “ah”, he utters a strange and funny vowel that sounds something like “ooh-ooh”, spoiling the magical effect.

As mentioned before, Suzel’s music touches the high C only once; on the contrary, her range is low for a soprano (for example, she has eleven low Ds to sing in the phrase “Mi commuove la musica”). Gheorghiu has a more Italianate voice than her partner; with her silky vibrato, she sings in a sort of old fashioned manner, which is part of her appeal. She tries very hard to become a simple country girl. Perhaps she tries too hard, because I sense a hint of artificiality in her interpretation: the grand diva who acts Suzel. In contrast, Freni, with her straightforwardness and naturalness is the naïve, unsophisticated girl.

Vocally Ms. Gheorghiu is sterling. The role presents no challenge for her. The high notes are bright, gleaming and penetrating, and her low register is firm and elegant because she does not try to enlarge it artificially. Furthermore, she respects all the dynamics required by the composer.

George Petean with his solid baritone makes the most of the impossibly irritating role of the rabbi. On the contrary, Laura Polverelli is disappointing as Beppe, a role en travestì. I had last heard her about a decade ago in bigger roles like Cenerentola, Rosina and Zerlina, and had appreciated her robust yet fluid mezzo-soprano. Here she sounds unsteady, unfocused and undistinguished.

The real surprise and biggest contribution to the success of this recording comes from conductor Alberto Veronesi. He avoids coating the narration with honey and molasses, undoubtedly the biggest risk in an opera of this kind, without doing away with the slightly melancholic dimension that constitutes the essence of this opera’s characters. The secret is to impart rhythmic freedom without losing the tight conciseness of the narrative. His task is made easier by the truly exquisite quality of The Orchestra of Deutsche Oper Berlin.

Veronesi is the artistic director of the Festival Pucciniano at Torre del Lago, where he has performed the composer’s complete canon. He demonstrates an evident affinity for this musical period. I look forward to his announced recordings of Giordano’s Fedora (with Gheorghiu and Placido Domingo substitiuting for Alagna), Leoncavallo’s La Bohème and especially Alfano’s Resurrezione.

As mentioned before, this is a live recording, capturing two concert performances that took place in September 2008 in Berlin; the quality of the sound is excellent, as if it had been recorded in a studio.

Maybe.

But as I am, I have seen and heard Otello performed many times, in color, in the original Italian, and with much better singers. In watching Walter Felsenstein’s Otello now, its style feels hokey, overblown and alienating.

This telecast used a new German translation of the Italian text, created specifically so Felsenstein’s production could get closer to Verdi’s original intentions. “Just see how I show you my feelings” sings the subtitled Desdemona during her Act III confrontation with Otello. This line pretty much sums up the feel of the whole production: the emphasis is on demonstrating how characters are feeling with broad, choreographed gestures and large facial expressions. The result is a bizarre, alien landscape of contorted bodies and painted faces — sometimes strange, sometimes laughable, but almost always keeping me, the audience, at a distance.

The tragedy is that this is the opposite of Felsenstein’s intention, as indicated in the interviews with him on this DVD (Arthaus Musik 101291). In his ideal opera production, every element — music, acting, design- would come together to emphasize the essential drama of a work above all else. His love and respect for the composer — and his modesty in their shadow — are palpable in these interviews. So perhaps this Otello is a step towards more dramatically compelling opera on film, compared with what came before. Maybe. But to me, a modern audience member who’s seen Zeffirelli’s big budget Traviata, Pagliacci and Otello, and up the nostrils of my favorite tenors in a movie theatre, it’s difficult to engage emotionally with opera depicted on film in this way.

Of course, all of this could perhaps be made up for if the singing was somewhere in between good and magnificent, but alas, here this DVD falls short again. Vladimir Bauer’s Iago is the weakest of the three principals, with a reedy, lightweight voice that sounds at times more like a character tenor than a Verdi baritone. Hanns Nocker’s Otello fairs only slightly better. Nocker certainly has the heft of voice for the part, but tends to bluster his way through key moments. Best of the three is Christa Noack as Desdemona, who succumbs to this style just as the rest, but has some very touching moments, and a sweet if unexceptional soprano.

Ultimately, if you are a Felsenstein scholar, or someone with a particular interest in the history of performance styles in opera, you may find much of value in this Otello. However if you are looking for a great performance of this greatest of operas, I suggest you look elsewhere. If you’re looking for a similar quality of filmed performance- that is, filmed with only so many cameras on a studio set- check out the 1974 filmed performance of Otello with Jon Vickers, Mirella Freni and Peter Glossop, conducted and directed by Herbert von Karajan. Alternatively, you can check out the 1958 filmed performance of Mario del Monaco, Renato Capecchi and Rosanna Carteri. Both are similar to the Felsenstein in terms of the style of performance — but both exceed it in dramatic impact due to the singers involve.

Jacques Offenbach (1819–1880) composed more than 80 operettas for the Parisian stage. Some of his works continue to enjoy regular exposure today — among them La belle Hélène, La vie parisienne, La Périchole, Orphée aux enfer, and La Grande-Duchesse de Gérolstein—while others have long since faded into obscurity. Most were comic in nature and played on class differences that divided French society during the times in which Offenbach lived, a societal structure that was effectively destroyed not long after the country’s defeat during the Franco-Prussian War (1870–71) put an end to the rule of Louis-Napoléon and brought about the Third Republic.

In some cases, Offenbach used characters from classical antiquity to (thinly) disguise his send-up of political figures and upper-class behavior, but audiences during the height of his fame — the late 1850s through about 1875 — knew exactly whom he and his librettists were spoofing. This is perhaps one of the reasons why most of his works have not survived into the present day. After all, how many 21st century Americans would be entertained by comic references to the Teapot Dome Scandal? Those pieces that have traveled best generally portray more universal archetypes that every society can recognize as a part of itself, and they also have the best music.

Walter Felsenstein (1901–1975) was a Vienna-born theater director whose interest in opera led him to create the Komische Oper (“Comic Opera”) Berlin, located in Soviet East Berlin. Throughout his tenure he produced more than 200 operas, the vast majority of which were sung in German. Seven of these productions were subsequently turned into feature films, beginning with Fidelio in 1956 and ending with Die Hochzeit des Figaros (“The Marriage of Figaro”) 20 years later. Ritter Blaubart (his version of Barbe-Bleu) was shot in 1973, a color production sponsored by East German television.

Felsenstein begins the film (Arthaus Musik 101293) with a movie-within-a-movie setup but soon abandons that artifice to settle into a more conventional filmed musical. In some ways it is mindful of Hollywood’s treatment of Brigadoon, except with cheesier sets and singing actors accustomed to providing the broad reactions more at home on stage than on the big screen.

Because of the era in which this film was shot, Felsenstein’s cast is comprised entirely of Eastern Bloc singers. Tenor Hanns Nocker, barely a household name in pre-glasnost Leipzig much less anywhere in the West today, sings the title role. He was a Felsenstein favorite, however, appearing in many Komisch productions over the years. Following his entrance on the set a good 30 minutes into the film—dressed in an armor-enhanced outfit strangely Elizabethan in design and accompanied by a six-man, halberd-bearing entourage that would not be out of place on the set of The Nutcracker (or a Monty Python sketch) — Nocker shows off a pleasantly lyrical voice well-suited to comic inflection. Even though Offenbach’s operettas boast an occasional opera-quality aria, most of the singing can be adequately rendered by a voice suited to musical theater. Nocker fits that bill perfectly and, more importantly, his slightly-over-the-top acting skills are ideal for the role of Blaubart.

None of the other main characters is especially memorable, but Ritter Blaubart is not meant to be a star vehicle. In fact, most of Offenbach’s operettas were created as ensemble pieces—among his major hits, only Gerolstein was written to place a primary character front and center—and he uses the chorus liberally. Ingrid Czerny sings the role of Fleurette (Princess Hermia), Bluebeard’s intended sixth wife. Other prime roles include Ruth Schob-Lipka as Queen Clémentine, Anny Schlemm as Boulotte, Manfred Hopp as Daphnis (Prince Saphir), and Rudolf Asmus as Popolani. None of the singers is miscast, and each has a sufficiently decent voice to make listening to this performance the joyfully pleasant experience one should expect from any Offenbach opera bouffe.

It can be challenging to translate a libretto into another language. One must retain the proper meter to accommodate the music while leaving the text unaltered in meaning or intent. One of the hallmarks of librettos by Henri Meilhac and Ludovic Halévy—the Gilberts of their day to Offenbach’s Sullivan—was biting satire contained within highly entertaining rhymed verse. Their version of the “patter song” (imagine a French rendition of one of Ko-Ko’s songs from The Mikado!) clearly illustrates their ability to pair witty repartee with Offenbach’s slew of sixteenth-notes that can last for bars and bars, barely giving the singer a chance to catch a breath.

Felsenstein collaborated with Horst Seeger, the opera house’s literary director, to craft a German libretto that was as faithful to the original as possible. They succeed reasonably well in managing to achieve satisfactory rhyming schemes for many of the film’s songs, although some were rendered in blank verse to better explain the on-stage action. There are also spots where the French lines have been retained, but even that aberration makes sense where employed; it’s usually in places where the lines have already been delivered in German or else are immaterial to plot progression.

It would be easy to dismiss this production as laughably provincial. One could almost imagine the crew of Mystery Science Theater 3000 giving King Bobéche (Werner Enders) the same sort of riffing they leveled at the character Lemminkäinen in the joint Finnish-Russian film The Day the Earth Froze. But Ritter Blaubart is no musical Plan 9 From Outer Space: not even close. Offenbach’s music transcends whatever production values may have been lacking in this East German presentation, the script faithfully follows the original 1866 libretto  —  where fans of French operetta can be just as amazed today that Offenbach was able to turn such a grisly storyline into comedy (we are, after all, speaking of a man whose five previous wives each died under mysterious circumstances) — and the lip-synching is not distracting. Felsenstein’s staging is compact enough to give the viewer a sense of how this production might have looked up on stage, but he also employs the kind of scene changes and shot angles that one could never experience as part of a theater audience.

Adding to the enjoyment of this restoration on DVD is a second disk chock full of extras. These include segments of the shooting script and corresponding scenes from a staged performance of the operetta—shot live in black-and-white. This is fascinating archival material, especially when compared to the same scenes in the feature film. There are also two audio interviews of Herr Felsenstein, conducted in German but with subtitles. The entire production includes subtitles in English, French, German, and Spanish.

The Isolde is Catarina Ligendza, as heard in the performance shared in last season of Unnatural Acts of Opera. Per our comely Camille, a Kleiber Bayreuth Tristan is one of the complete operas included in the very reasonably priced compendium Beyond the Ring: The Best of Wagner [Box Set].

So much has been written about this Lucia, especially in light of the fact that in these past two years it has starred a group of extremely high-profile sopranos. In addition to Natalie Dessay, the “original” Lucia, two other superstars, Diana Damrau and Anna Netrebko, have appeared in it, prompting the press to attend the production again. A fourth, Annick Massis, albeit a highly respected artist, apparently lacked the diva status to drag the reviewers back to the opera house en masse.

But the Met’s Lucia requires a second look if only because it has just been released on DVD by Deutsche Grammophon with Netrebko in the title role.

Let us begin with the production itself.  Sir Walter Scott’s The Bride of Lammermoor, which provided the inspiration for Salvatore Cammarano’s libretto, sets the action in Scotland during the reign of Queen Anne (early 18^th century);

Ms. Zimmerman has transposed the action to the Victorian age. Some have suggested that her reason for this update was to highlight the incipient collapse of the British empire through the depiction of the shattering of a woman’s mind, her family and a whole social system. Others have theorzied that the producer’s main intention was to recreate a true Gothic story, and that particular historical period, with its penchant for ghosts, was the ideal background. Yet others  implied that the revision was simply a gimmick to introduce into the story novel elements like the photographer or the hypodermic needle used to sedate Lucia.

Personally, I enjoyed the production and didn’t find many faults.

It is true that the change in epoch makes the story historically problematic (why would Edgardo have to flee to France?), but again, this doesn’t seem to be an element of concern for modern directors: consider the plethora of Toscas taking place in Fascist Italy, where the characters are still distressed about Napoleon’s victory at Marengo or the fall of the Roman republic.

I was not bothered by the presence of the photographer who, during the glorious sextet, frets about the stage gathering Lucia’s family members to take their picture and flashing his camera immediately after the last note of the music. It is probably true that this device was introduced because of the producer’s basic lack of trust and faith in what she must consider the epitome of artificiality, the concertato, where the action stops for several minutes. Yet, I didn’t find it obtrusive.

The appearance of ghosts has also been widely excoriated, but I found them to be an integral part of Ms. Zimmerman’s conception of the opera as a Gothic story. As the director herself comments in the DVD special features, “the ghosts are absolutely real in the Scott novel. He describes them and the readers see them. Even when the other characters aren’t there, they are described. … For me the ghosts are sort of a spirit of revenge that haunts the ground at Ravenswood and reaches through Lucia to get Edgardo”.

The tangible quality of the ghost in the Act One fountain scene is of vital importance for Ms. Zimmerman’s view that Lucia is sane at the beginning of the opera, her descent into insanity being a gradual process. Personally I am inclined to think that Donizetti’s music is suggestive of Lucia’s precarious state of mind from the start, but I am open to Ms. Zimmerman’s theory, because it is coherently developed.

There were a few ideas that didn’t quite work, the worst being the cutting of the murder to about half a minute by showing Lucia and her “sposino” going upstairs at the beginning of the third act.

The look of the production is fantastic (and I use this terms in both its meanings: exquisite and fairy-like) and it is clear that special attention was devoted to the singers’ acting. And yet, as is often the case when a controversial production is later revived, some of the most daring details have been excluded or toned down.

In the initial run, during the Larghetto “Ardon gl’incensi,” Natalie Dessay’s Lucia slowly removed her gloves and on the words “ogni piacer più grato” while lying on her back, she caressed her body in a provocative manner, imagining her wedding night with Edgardo. In this revival Ms. Netrebko does nothing of the sort. Whether this omission was due to the director’s second thoughts, or to the new diva’s insistence, we will never know.

Netrebko, the raison d’être of the DVD, was scheduled to appear in this Lucia earlier in the season, but had to cancel because of the birth of her first child. Here, despite some lingering signs of puffiness, the Russian soprano looks beautiful and glamorous. Her timbre is dark (my personal description is “melted chocolate”), rich and supple, agreeable and captivating. It is in a few words what is commonly called “a beautiful voice.”  She knows how to sing “sul fiato”, floating the sound, and is able to modulate the tone. Her voice is evenly produced through virtually the entire  extension, with no conspicuous gear shifts between registers.

“Regnava nel silenzio” was admirable for its expressiveness and use of legatos and pianos. Trills and mordents, on the other hands, seem not to be her forte, as she disregarded all of them. The rendition of the cabaletta, performed without the traditional higher variations, was nonetheless stirring.

Ms. Netrebko has a strong command of the demands of most of the role. The first act duet with the tenor, the second act duet with the baritone and the wedding scene are outstanding; it is clearly music where she can leave her mark. However, her singing is by no means flawless, as we hear when she faces the crucial test for any Lucia: the Mad Scene. Nothing she did was vocally embarrassing, yet there is no denying that her passagework was often less than tidy (let’s say even a bit sloppy) and her extreme high notes sounded fatigued. The famous flute cadenza (which, as everyone knows, Donizetti did not write) was undoubtedly the least impressive moment of Ms. Netrebko’s performance. She ducked the first E flat, and the final one turned out shrill and short.

Once more, no trills were to be heard, and in the cadenza this was particularly conspicuous because the flute trills and she did not. Ms. Netrebko could of course sing an entirely different cadenza, more suitable to her current vocal gifts, but audiences are used to the traditional one and often react with indifference (to say the least) when it is not performed. It is regrettable that a cadenza Donizetti never wrote has come to be considered the centerpiece of the opera, and a litmus test for any soprano who wishes to sing this work.

As a matter of fact, Donizetti’s original version of this opera, with its slightly higher keys, would be much more congenial to Ms. Netrebko’s voice. These are the composer’s keys and the ones traditionally used in performance, respectively: “Regnava nel silenzio” ( E flat/D); “Quando rapita in estasi” (A flat/G); “Il pallor funesto, orrendo” (A/G); Mad Scene (F/E flat).  Obviously, of course, when performing the Mad Scene in the original key, very few sopranos can end with the cadential high note of F.

As I said, I personally chose to close one eye over her imperfections as a virtuosa, not least because Ms. Netrebko is a consummate actress. She instinctively finds the pertinent movement, the appropriate glance for every moment of the opera.  Many are the details that caught my attention, such as the sarcastic shoulder shrug she gives her brother in the second act duet when he tells her “tuo fratello sono ancor”.

She draws you into Lucia’s drama and makes you believe in it. She is, in other words, a charismatic artist. Dumas père, speaking of Fanny Tacchinardi Persiani (the creator of the role of Lucia) and her apparent lack of intensity on stage, quipped: “She is a brunette who sings like a blonde.”  Anna Netrebko, though, is a brunette who sings like a brunette!

Judging by this performance (as well as by other recent appearances in bel canto roles), it seems Ms. Netrebko’s career would be better served by steering towards a more lyric, less virtuoso repertoire — especially roles where the high E flat is not considered essential.

This run of Lucia di Lammermoor performances and the taping of the DVD were supposed to reunite Netrebko with Rolando Villazon, but the “dream team” turned into a nightmare when the tenor’s voice spectacularly failed him in the first performance, cracking on the climax of the second act confrontation scene.

Piotr Beczala came to the rescue. The Polish tenor has an exquisite, full-bodied Italianate voice, with hints of that “sob” (“lacrima nella voce” is a better description of this quality) which makes a singer particularly endearing if used intelligently. It took him some time to warm up, and he yielded his best work in the final scene. Early in the opera some of his Bs flat showed a touch of metallic sound and impurity, but the B natural in the cadenza of “Fra poco a me ricovero” was splendid. “Tu che a Dio spiegasti l’ali” was moving and affecting. He actually managed to sound moribund without resorting to stifled yells.

His roughest moment, relatively speaking, was the Wolf’s Craig scene, where his top sounded at times perilously taxed by the high tessitura in such an intense, dramatic context.

Baritone Marius Kwiecen’s Enrico was less of a villain than he is generally portrayed, and rightly so: after all, this character is not an evil person; he is just a desperate man who is well aware that his (and his family’s) fortune and even his life depend on Lucia’s marriage. Mr. Kwiecen’s has a mid-sized, velvety voice; he is most of all capable of depicting Enrico’s rage without huffing and puffing and artificially enlarging the sound.

Russian bass Ildar Abdrazakov was almost wasted in the role of Raimondo, but grabbed every opportunity to show off his first-class talent. He can certainly be forgiven for holding the last note at the end of “Dalle stanze, ove Lucia” for what seemed an eternity , even though Donizetti requires the bass to stop with the chorus.

Marco Armiliato is a brilliant conductor. The sound he elicits from the orchestra is incisive, crisp, neat and attentive to each detail; he wraps the opera with an appropriate mysterious Romantic aura. Unfortunately he and the Metropolitan Opera don’t seem so respectful of the score from a philological point of view. Some of the daccapos are eliminated, and when they are present, they lack interesting variations. Most of the traditional internal cuts are still executed, including the whole second part of the act two finale “Esci, fuggi.” I firmly believe that nowadays, after decades of bel canto renaissance, a major opera house should perform the opera in its entirety and with variations in the daccapos, more so if the performance is to be recorded and commercially released.

One element that I particularly cherished was the use of the glass harmonica during the Mad Scene; as it is well known, Donizetti’s original intention was to employ this exotic instrument, which gives the scene an eerie, supernatural atmosphere.

Having heard this cast live in the opera house, I can attest to the high quality of the sound of this recording, which gives a very accurate idea of the actual size of the singers’ voices. I was also impressed at how sharply the various sections of the orchestra can be heard.

The DVD is exquisitely directed by Gary Halvorson. He is a Julliard trained pianist and, as with his other recent Met high-definition theater simulcasts, he knows quite well whom and what to capture. There are very few incongruities between the music and what is shown on film. The alternation between close-ups, mid shots and master shots is well balanced.

On the other hand, I am not fond of his occasional choice of filming the singers as they leave the stage while the music is still playing. This, together with his showing them in the wings (documentary style) at the end of the first act, disrupts the atmosphere. I believe this type of behind the scene action is best reserved for the DVD’s extras section, which features Natalie Dessay briefly interviewing cast and crew.

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?

“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.

Meanwhile, in honor of this cinematic event, your doyenne is launching a parterre competition for you. Details of both are after the jump.

According to the Poisson Rouge website,

This once-in-a-lifetime concert celebrates the launch of her newest album, Sacrificium. Filmed in the private theater of the Royal Palace in Caserta, Italy just outside of Naples, the film features Bartoli performing a number of arias from the album with Il Giardino Armonico and Giovanni Antonini.

The Poisson Rouge event will also include the introduction of the “Castratini” cocktail, door prizes and “much more.”

And what of the competition, you ask? Well, La Cieca was just thinking that La Bartoli’s recording career began in 1989 with the release of her Rossini Arias disc, making her one of the first classical artists whose career has transpired entirely in the CD era. We’ve seen many changes in classical music recording over these past two decades, and what La Cieca would like for you to do, cher public, is to present your ideas (in the comments section below) on what classical music recording will be like another two decades hence, in the year 2029.

Your doyenne is looking for clear reasoning and entertaining, vibrant writing (as if she needs to tell you), and the commenter she judges best presents his or her ideas will win an autographed copy of Bartoli’s Sacrificium, provided by First Chair Promotion.

Deadline for eligible comments is midnight, Tuesday, November 17.

This collection (Profil – Edition Günter Hänssler PRF 07058), volume 23 of a series released by the Staatskapelle in Dresden, consists of Act I of Die Walküre on CD 1 and Wagner excerpts on CD 2, recorded in September and December of 1944. The accompanying booklet, in both German and English, offers a reason for the bizarre mix- the Walküre and Tannhäuser excerpts were the last recordings made in the old Semperoper before it was shut down by the authorities, and the remaining excerpts on disc 2 were the sole surviving fragments from the December recording session at the Steinsaal at the Hygiene Museum. (I know, I thought the same thing- Hygiene Museum? It was actually a museum of hygiene, and is one of the institutions that helped shape the Nazi ideals of race and health.)

The recording balance in the orchestra on Disc 1 isn’t ideal: the Walküre prelude is woofy, and sounds like one of the microphones was crammed in the middle of the string basses. The upper strings also sound tinny in this mono recording. Together, these ensure a lack of balance that continues throughout most of the act, so if you want to be swept away by the glorious orchestral sound, this recording is not for you. However, Margarete Teschemacher pleases the ear with her simple and beautiful Sieglinde. I love the way she utilizes her easy chest voice, which lends her interpretation a directness other popular Sieglindes don’t find. One can hear a stifled woman who must be stoic to protect herself. When Sieglinde is free from Hunding, her vocal line becomes more agitated and Teschemacher’s powerful instrument proves its worth.

The Hunding, Kurt Böhme, is everything I want in a German bass- an impressive command of the language delivered with buckets of color. Max Lorenz has a clear heldentenor voice, sounding desperate and hopeless as the defeated Siegfried. It’s amazing how, even in his middle range, he was already blowing out the microphones. It’s another little annoyance that most of his singing is accompanied by this recording rattle. Beginning with his “Winterstürme” he opens up, almost reckless in his delivery as a swelling passion overtakes the brother/lover.

The pacing of disc 1 is brilliant, taking off at “Der Männer Sippe” and racing to a glorious finish. I gave the conductor, Bayreuth regular Karl Elmendorff, two points, both of which I immediately took away when I listened to the sluggish disc 2, a smattering of excerpts from the Ring, Tannhäuser, Dutchman and Meistersinger. Elmendorff conducts half of these excerpts, the other half being conducted by Kurt Striegler, a Dresden native who worked with the Semperoper throughout his career.

Disc 2 opens with Wotan’s farewell, sung by Joseph Hermann. The majestic beginning of this scene is marred by the overindulgent tempo and phrasing. Hermann has a leaner sound than I expected for a Wotan- I guess ever since I heard George London’s beefy god, I expect a voice with more color. He sings brightly in high passages, and his is an intelligent interpretation despite some not-so-stylistic portamenti. Occasionally he makes that gurgly bad-Melchior sound. The slow tempo set at the beginning remains relaxed throughout, and I wonder what was Elmendorff’s motivation for this. It doesn’t sound justified by the interpretation; it just sounds slow. The only revelation I experienced was the playful magic fire music. At a slower tempo it came alive as I have never heard, as if the flames were dancing their way down from the heavens.

The second track on Disc 2 is “Dich teure Halle” sung by a 30 year old Marianne Schech. Although she sings piano with a beautiful bloom, she has a tendency to sing sharp in her upper register. Still, I would have loved to hear her Elisabeth live. The next track, “Allmächtige Jungfrau” is taken at such a slow tempo that it’s a disaster. Schech sounds shaky and insecure, I assume because there’s no feeling of movement whatsoever. It’s interesting to note that these Walküre and Tannhäuser excerpts were all recorded in one take.

From here on the recording quality is severely diminished. These excerpts were recorded in December at the Hygiene Museum, then copied onto extremely fragile acetate or shellac discs. It’s too bad that the master tapes were destroyed, since we could have had a cleaner sound from them. The first of these is the Dutchman/Daland duet sung by Hermann and Böhme, and conducted by Striegler. Though Hermann gives a fussy performance, Böhme’s characterization is clean and good-humored. It’s funny how some of Dutchman sounds like Donizetti.

The second Dutchman duet, “Wie aus der Ferne”, is a fragment in which Hermann sounds like a tenor, especially in his upper range. The “duet” then unexpectedly cuts off right before Senta comes in. This is one of the tracks lasting less than four minutes due to the media they re-recorded on. Hermann sounds better in the following track, singing Hans Sachs’ “Was duftet doch der Flieder” with an attention to language that one rarely hears today- all the short vowels are actually short, a feat he accomplishes by singing on ending consonants. Who says you always have to sing legato?

The last two tracks from Siegfried and Götterdämmerung seem even poorer in quality, and are so strangely cut that they reveal nothing to me about the singers or the music. Overall I think this recording is mostly interesting due to its history. Though there were some exciting moments, I didn’t find enough pleasure to warrant adding it to my collection.

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.