The no-star, slapstick revival of John Dexter’s 37-year-old production of Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail that opened Friday night proved James Levine’s tenure as Music Director of the Met will end in two weeks with neither a whimper nor a bang. Other than Albina Shagimuratova’s dramatically dour but vocally gleaming Konstanze, no compelling reason for these performances presented itself besides its maestro’s desire to conduct a favorite work. Read more »
To be honest, I have never seen anything quite like Matthias Goerne in recital. He seemed so wonderfully free. Read more »
As Enrico Caruso once said to me, “All you need for a good La Gioconda is the six greatest singers in the world and a few dancing elephants.” “Are there that many great singers?” I retorted. He just smiled, pinched my cheek and gave me a sketch he’d done of me while I was sleeping through a Meistersinger in standing room. I guess I should have hung on to it, huh? Be worth something today. Anyway, fortunately, he was wrong: You can do a thoroughly enjoyable Gioconda with far fewer great singers than six, and I heard one in Englewood just last Sunday. Read more »
Louis XVI, Marie-Antoinette, and a slew of their members of court are hanging out in the afterlife…
The haunted Mycenae of Patrice Chéreau’s enthralling production of Richard Strauss’s Elektra had seized its viewers in an unrelenting vise that never relaxed even at its quietly shattering conclusion.
“I will never sing the role again. It was frightful. We were a set of madwomen…There is nothing beyond Elektra. We have lived and reached the furthest boundaries in dramatic writing for the voice with Wagner. But Richard Strauss goes beyond him. His singing voices are lost. We have come to a full stop.”
Othello in the Seraglio is the rather unfortunate title bestowed by the ensemble Dünya on its “coffeehouse opera,” ossia The Tragedy of Sümbül the Black Eunuch.
The original conductor of Nielsen’s opera summed the piece up well I think…
That Placido Domingo and James Levine, the Met’s inexorable septuagenarians, would team up yet again—on April Fools’ Day, no less—for a revival of Verdi’s Simon Boccanegra occasioned an uncomfortable degree of doubt and dread.