Le Nozze di Figaro

“Aprite un po’ quegli occhi!”

There are many operatic comedies, but if there’s a work that ends on a more joyous note than “Le Nozze di Figaro,” I’ve yet to see it. Indeed, Saturday’s finale to Mozart’s opera, courtesy of the Met’s Live in HD telecast, was cause for elation.

There’s just so much in “Figaro”: servant vs. master, long-lost parents, assignations in the garden, a randy pageboy who enjoys dressing as a girl, and most of all, that incredible Act Two, with its musically intricate and plot-twisting finale. Not to mention the funniest moment in opera—when Susanna, not Cherubino, steps out of the closet, to the Count’s complete stupification. (For the record my other favorites are Mistresses Ford and Page discovering Falstaff has sent them both the same love letter, the ménage à trois of “Le Comte D’Ory” and Almaviva and Rosina singing of how they’ll make their getaway instead of making their getaway while Figaro is “andiam”–ing them onward).

Richard Eyre’s production, which opened the current Met season, sets “Figaro” in 1930’s Spain. In my experience putting the singers in contemporary dress often frees them, not only from the literal constraints of corsets and powdered wigs, but from a type of formality that can be distancing. In short a modern dress production seems to enable them (and the audience) to relate to their characters and each other more easily than in a traditional staging. Such was the case here—the singers seemed to be enjoying themselves to the hilt.

There’s been a great deal of debate as to what that ’30’s setting signifies in view of Franco and the looming Civil War. I see it in a different light. Let me give you a hint: think Renoir’s “The Rules of the Game,” not politics. In fact if memory serves, Renoir precedes the action of his film with a quote from the source of the opera, Beaumarchais’ “Le marriage de Figaro.” Like the world of that film, the regime Eyre portrays is corrupt and dying; what’s left is love, the chase and other divertissements.

Eyre begins the production with a prequel that accompanies the overture. I didn’t care for his use of this device in his production of “Werther” last season, but I very much enjoyed it here. The scenes on the revolving set featured a maid running to work from the Count’s chambers while hastily dressing en route; the knowing looks of her fellow servants when she finally reports to her post; the gardener Antonio, already tippling in the a.m.; and the Countess, restlessly tossing in her bed—alone.

This was the 75th performance of “Le Nozze di Figaro” conducted by James Levine at the Met, and musical matters were as crisp as ever. The cast was excellent. Ildar Abdrazakov, shorn of his beard and Prince Igor’s long locks, is an engaging and enormously attractive Figaro. He and Marlis Petersen made an interesting team. Somewhat cast against type (she was a sinuous, dangerous Lulu at the Met several seasons ago), she proved a slightly older and definitely wiser Susanna than usual. Susanna is no ingenue, and variations on the role are most welcome. Years ago I saw Catherine Malfitano (pre-Salome and Tosca) perform a lovely, vulnerable Susanna, while Judith Blegen brought her sharp intelligence to the role. During the second act jousting with the Count, her expression wasn’t just “How did a nice girl like me end up in a mess like this?” it was “How did a nice smart girl like me” etc. In the current production the modern era works to Petersen’s advantage—she could have given Carole Lombard a run for her money in any 30’s screwball comedy.

I have to admit one of my main reasons for buying a ticket to this performance was to hear Peter Mattei sing “Contessa, perdono.” For sheer beauty of sound, there are few currently active baritones who can touch him. His Count Almaviva possessed the most important attribute necessary to putting the role across—authority, which he never lost despite the many times he was outfoxed by Figaro, Susanna and nearly everyone else on stage. I would have liked to have seen a Countess who could truly match him, but Amanda Majeski isn’t quite there yet, though she may well be in the future. I thought her performance a bit one-note—this Countess should have been on Prozac, though she eagerly joined in the many twists and turns of Act Two. I tend to think the overdone depression was more Eyre’s take on the character than hers, so there may be some tweaking in the future.

Isabel Leonard is a beautiful woman with a lovely voice, but I wasn’t really impressed until seeing her performance as Cherubino. She’s inside his skin, and looked quite dashing in that white suit. However, I was somewhat disappointed by “Voi che sapete.” She acted the lyrics to the aria, which resulted in some abruptly terminated phrases. But the aria is really a performance piece, and I would have preferred to have heard it as pure music rather than a vehicle by which Cherubino too obviously shows his befuddlement and anxiety to the Countess. Since it’s such a calling card for lyric mezzos, I can’t imagine this was Ms. Leonard’s idea, but it needs to be thrown overboard forthwith.

The rest of the cast was exemplary: Greg Fedderly’s Don Basilio seemed like Paul Lynde revisited, Susanne Mentzer, a former Cherubino of distinction, was a wonderfully arch Marcellina and John Del Carlo blustered becomingly as Bartolo. There was also a star in the making—Ying Fang, whose Barbarina had far more voice that you usually hear in this role. She’s got the limpid sound and the charm to be a wonderful Mimi, and I look forward to hearing more from her in the future.

What a lovely way to start a season of opera.

Some food for thought: Here’s a snapshot of what’s wrong with opera in America today. At my local multiplex there were only about 40 people in attendance for the “Figaro” HD telecast. I spotted one couple in their early 30’s, another in their 40’s, and a young woman in her 20’s who arrived with her mother. No one else in the theater would see 55 again, and in fact, the majority of attendees appeared to be in their late 60’s and far beyond. And, sad to say, the situation is no different at the university where I usually attend HD telecasts. So the marketing folks better get cracking pronto, before there’s no audience remaining to appreciate some of the greatest works ever created.

No Strength of Conviction

“The Death of Klinghoffer”–Opera Theater of St. Louis (Photo: Ken Howard)

I’m furious.

The Metropolitan Opera, per General Manager Peter Gelb, has cancelled both the HD telecast and the radio broadcast of John Adams’ “The Death of Klinghoffer,” scheduled for next season. To anyone who has heard the opera (more about that later), the given reason for doing so is couched in something of a non-sequiter: that an international showing of the work would be “inappropriate in a time of rising anti-Semitism.” In the next breath, Gelb maintains that he doesn’t feel the work is anti-Semitic, but he understands the “genuine concern of the international Jewish community.”

Baloney.

The prime mover in this is Abraham Foxman of the Anti-Defamation League, supposedly representing the interests of the Klinghoffers’ daughters. In truth this is an attempt to stir a pot that doesn’t exist. Unlike Mr. Foxman, who admits he’s never seen the opera and whom I seriously doubt has even heard the music or read the libretto, I’ve listened to a recording of the work, and no way is “The Death of Klinghoffer” anti-Semitic, nor in my opinion, anti-Zionist.

What John Adams and Alice Goodman have produced is a multi-faceted, sensitive opera designed to represent multiple points of view and—horrors!—to make the audience think. The music is some of Adams’ best—eerily beautiful, yet powerful. What I suspect really galls the ADL and their supporters is that the work is not as one-sided as they would wish. The Palestinians on stage voice their aspirations; they’re not merely cardboard villains. Though Adams and Goodman make it very clear that Leon Klinghoffer’s murder was an unjustified, horrific act, this is evidently not enough for those who operate on knee-jerk reactions.

Look, I’m Jewish and I had problems with “The Death of Klinghoffer” before I listened to it. My reservations weren’t political, but emotional—my parents were of the same generation as Leon and Marilyn Klinghoffer, and it didn’t take much imagination to see them on the Achille Lauro. But having listened to the opera, I think it’s a major work that should be seen by as wide an audience as possible. I had planned to attend the HD telecast, but unfortunately this opportunity hasn’t just been taken away—it’s been stolen from me and everyone else who had been eagerly looking forward to seeing it. The artistic loss can’t be denied: John Adams is a composer of enormous stature whose works are among the most intriguing any opera house has to offer. The Met’s productions of “Nixon in China” and “Doctor Atomic,” both of which I’ve seen, are on a very short list of outright successes Peter Gelb has enjoyed during his tenure as General Manager.

I have a message for the ADL: You don’t speak for me. Abraham Foxman, he who blithely admits he never saw the opera, apparently wanted the entire run of “The Death of Klinghoffer” to be cancelled. But, as he ever so smugly told the New York Times, “We compromised.” The fact that a special interest group is evidently dictating repertory to the Metropolitan Opera should give anyone with a brain some pause.

To the Klinghoffer daughters: Your loss was immeasurable. I know you don’t see it this way, but to those familiar with the opera, John Adams and Alice Goodman have honored the memory of your parents, not exploited it. The fact that you are evidently using your influence to suppress, rather than promote, an opportunity for discourse is in itself an injustice.

To Peter Gelb and the Metropolitan Opera: Your cancellation of the HD telecast of “The Death of Klinghoffer” is the worst expression of cowardice I’ve seen in years. You caved to political pressure in the same way that Hollywood and TV caved during the McCarthy and “Red Channels” years. You’ve compromised the very mission of the arts: to provoke thought and discussion. Integrity once lost can never be regained. So the next time your little minions call me for a donation, the answer will be no. And Peter? You just wrote the first paragraph of your obituary.

The “Klinghoffer” controversy is just one more example of the extreme fear exhibited by religious and/or special interest groups in the face of any expression that departs from orthodoxy. A number of years ago it was Catholic groups that protested the showing of Chris Ofili’s “The Holy Virgin Mary” at the Brooklyn Museum (If you recall, the artist had used elephant dung in addition to more traditional media in executing the portrait). Then-Mayor Rudy Giuliani threatened to withdraw city aid to the museum, which filed suit in federal court and won on First Amendment grounds.

Ultimately this type of suppression is unvarnished paternalism. It stands for the proposition that only Mommy and Daddy know what’s best for you. Interest groups that apply this type of pressure to arts organizations fundamentally distrust the audience, no doubt out of fear that their own ideas will be rejected. The only comfort one can take away is that those who suppress are on the wrong side of history.

Will the ADL up the ante next time by resorting to book-burning? Shonda.

 

Lose One, Win One

Still Smarter Than AGMA and Local 802

This may turn out to be more deadly than the “Game of Thrones” Red Wedding.

Local 802 of the Musicians Union recently authorized a strike should an agreement not be reached with the Metropolitan Opera before current contracts expire on July 31. Unlike the choristers represented by the raucous American Guild of Musical Artists (AGMA), which has been rattling its saber for weeks, the musicians have been quiet until now.

Given the present state of affairs, it’s time for a tutorial from this Met subscriber whose hard-earned dollars have been paying their salaries since 1987. So all you unions, welcome to Auntie Betty’s parlor. Have a seat while I try to open your eyes to reality.

Contrary to your evident expectations, you’re not going to win the public relations war. Met General Manager Peter Gelb and his board aren’t dummies, so they won’t forsake the high road to lock you out, which is something I’m sure you’d dearly love (Martyrdom has its perks, I suppose). While the Minnesota Orchestra management had to learn the hard way from this mistake, you can rest assured the Met hierarchy was watching their every move and filing the public reaction away for future reference. This, in addition to the calm of Peter Gelb’s response to every hysterical pronouncement by AGMA, consistently casts the Met in the adult role as opposed to the unions’ acting like petulant teenagers.

You’re not fast food workers scraping by on minimum wage. While the employment paradigm in this country has shifted drastically to part-time and contract work, you’re full-time, permanent employees, a status that many of your audience members would kill for. So how much sympathy do you think you’re going to get when real wages in this country have been virtually frozen for decades and the cost of benefits is increasingly forced on employees? Unemployment in the New York metropolitan area remains high, to the extent that millions have ceased even looking for work, or haven’t you heard? The present economic picture results in less disposable income, which in turn means fewer Met tickets sold and fewer dollars donated (Let’s not forget the investments of the Big Wallets, i.e., the moneyed elite, were also hit by the 2008 economic upheaval). I see no evidence whatsoever that you’ve acknowledged this reality, but you better do so, pronto. Otherwise you’re not serving your membership.

I remember the Met strike of 1969-70, when half a season was lost, and opera lovers went through major withdrawal. Here’s a news flash: We won’t feel that level of pain this time should there be a strike. Why? We’ve got opera on DVD, Blu-ray, YouTube and countless sites on the interwebs, not to mention HD telecasts from around the world. Of course we’ll miss the excitement of the live experience, but we sure won’t be bereft.

Think about it.

________________________________________________________

Oh happy day!

The news broke this week that Saul Katz, business partner and brother-in-law of Fred Wilpon, owner of the Mets, may be interested in selling his share. This would either make the Wilpons minority owners or force them to sell their interest in the team. Although Katz immediately denied the rumor, Mets fans took to the internet and social media to rejoice.

If ever a franchise needed new ideas and a cash infusion, it’s the Boys of Flushing, New York. Hit hard by the Madoff scandal (the Wilpons and the Madoffs had been friends for decades), the Mets have simply been out of the running for several years in the free agent market. They’ve been forced to settle for players like Chris Young and Curtis Granderson who, while able, are not what the Mets have a crying need for—a Big Bat. A Darryl Strawberry, a Gary Carter—someone who can deliver. Consistently. And be a colorful Super Star. For years the Mets have been as bland as skim milk. This is New York, for God’s sake! Strut your stuff.

At heart the Wilpons really seem to have wanted to own the Brooklyn Dodgers, not the New York Mets. While the new CitiField honored Dodger greats from Opening Day, the Wilpons didn’t even feature a Mets museum until the ballpark’s second season, and it was only then that the team’s retired numbers appeared on the outfield fences. With this plus a very disheartening team, is it any wonder that ticket sales have been diminishing year by year?

Financially speaking, the Mets have been a bottomless pit, and I suspect that had the Wilpons not been close friends of Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig, they would have been forced to undergo some stringent financial scrutiny when the true extent of Bernie Madoff’s dealings became known, and perhaps even been forced to sell the team. It’s nice to have friends in high places.

Here’s hoping a sale happens ASAP. I don’t expect a World Series champ overnight, but I would like to see some consistently competent and maybe even (dare I hope?) occasionally exciting baseball played in Queens for an entire season. It’s a start.

________________________________________________________

R.I.P. Al Feldstein, the driving force behind Mad Magazine’s success and the father (?!?) of Alfred E. Neuman, this post’s headliner. At its peak, there was nothing better than to grab the latest issue and laugh like a fool over what “the usual gang of idiots” had cooked up that month. Good times.

 

 

State of the Art

Though New York”s winter weather has indeed been frightful, the music in this corner of the world has certainly been delightful.

When a performance of Handel’s “Theodora” was scheduled at Carnegie Hall for February 2nd, I was reluctant to buy a ticket. With New Jersey serving as host for the first time, this was Super Bowl Sunday, which meant ridership on the train to New York, not to mention security issues, threatened to be overwhelming. But “Theodora” was to feature Harry Bicket and the English Concert, joined by some expert Handelians, so I just had to go (P.S.: It turned out I had no trouble whatsoever with transportation that day).

Röschmann + Bicket + English Concert = Glorious

After a slow first act (Handel’s fault, not the performers’), the work just bloomed. Dorothea Röschmann, whose dark soprano was a perfect fit for the heroine, was simply on fire that afternoon. Sarah Connolly was a wonderful contrast as Irene, and David Daniels (Didymus), Kurt Streit (Septimius) and especially Neal Davies (Valens) were equally expert in their roles. I’m in awe of singers who perform Handel at this level—in addition to considerable vocalism, they’re required to complement the orchestral line in a manner that few other composers demand. But the key ingredients that day were Harry Bicket and the English Concert, who together with these soloists turned what is basically a one-line plot (Christians vs. Early Romans and we all know how that ends) into a musical spellbinder.

Next up was the Met’s new production of Borodin’s “Prince Igor,” a work that hadn’t been performed by the company in nearly 100 years. This one’s a great deal of fun for fans of the musical “Kismet,” like myself, since so much of the score of that show is derived from this opera—a phrase here, a few notes there, and of course, the “Polovtsian Dances,” a.k.a. “Stranger in Paradise.” What makes “Prince Igor” somewhat unique is that there isn’t a set edition of the score. Borodin died leaving entire sections of the work unfinished; Rimsky-Korsakov and Glazunov then split the responsibility of completing the opera and orchestrating it. The Met’s current version omits the Overture, yet adds other Borodin-composed music, and presents Igor’s encounter with Khan Konchak and the Polovtsians earlier than usual, this time immediately after the Prologue.

Prince Igor

Musically, the performance I saw was extraordinary: conducted by Gianandrea Noseda, the opera was marvelously sung by Ildar Abdrazakov (Igor), Oksana Dyka (Yaroslavna), Anita Rachvelishvili (Konchakovna) and Sergey Semisher (Vladimir). The richness and exoticism of the score were a welcome change from the standard Italian-German repertory, especially in the seductive mezzo-tenor duet. Dramatically, though, you have to wonder why this is called “Prince Igor” when his wife, Yaroslavna, has the better role—she’s the Russian version of “Game of Thrones'” Catelyn Stark, betrayed by her usurper brother, Prince Galitsky (a terrific Mikhail Petrenko), yet trying in her husband’s absence to hold the kingdom together with her faithful boyars.

I thought some of the choices by director Dmitri Tcherniakov were odd. The poppy fields in rows for the Polovtsian scene were unnecessarily confining for the dancers who were forced to hurdle the flower hedges like track stars, and Igor’s hallucinations seemed too realistic (his “missing you” duet with Yaroslavna was staged in full light as she stood right next to him). And there was too much old-fashioned “Oh my God” head-holding and similar gestures by some of the singers. Nevertheless, “Prince Igor” is a wonderful change of pace, and one which the Met should be performing on a far more frequent basis.

Jonas. No further words necessary.

The term “physique du rôle” could have been coined to describe Jonas Kaufmann as Massenet’s “Werther” in the Met’s new production–he absolutely embodies all aspects of the character in a manner not often seen on the opera stage. Unlike other singers, he shows us Werther’s social awkwardness in Act I, as a man far more comfortable extolling nature than interacting with people. His first scenes with Charlotte are magical in this production, as we see them dance at the ball to what will become a recurring theme in the opera, the motif that signals Werther’s love.

Nevertheless, Kaufmann had to resort to some odd choices to produce the sound the role demands. Werther is somewhat tricky—the role is lyrical at the beginning of the opera, yet it requires dramatic force when the character finally confesses his love for Charlotte. Kaufmann has a big voice—the man sings Wagner after all—so there was some reining in at various times in the performance I saw, and not a small amount of crooning on his part. When he finally let fly with an impassioned “Pourquoi me reveiller” I was relieved to hear that golden Jonas sound.

Sophie Koch’s vibrant mezzo brought out the best in Charlotte. There was a welcome warmth to her performance (I’ve seen more than one Charlotte who so tended toward ice you wonder why Werther would even bother), and she added no small amount of insight. At the beginning of Act II, when Charlotte and Albert, her new husband, enter, they sit a bit apart on a bench. While he marvels at his happiness by exclaiming “I can’t believe it’s been three months since we wed,” her stiff posture alone, even before she repeats that line, shows her quite opposite view of their marriage.

The production by Richard Eyre is traditional, which to me seems fitting for some of the most romantic music in the repertoire. Nevertheless a few directorial choices were questionable. With the exception of showing Werther and Charlotte at the ball, Eyre’s invented moments of illustration for the prelude and scene transitions ranged from unnecessary to ludicrous. We didn’t need to have the opera start with the death of Charlotte’s mother, and Charlotte’s struggling into her booties onstage before rushing out after the dispatch of those pistols was a mood-breaker, to put it mildly. On the other hand, the suicide is extraordinarily realistic—when Werther shot himself and the blood spattered on the opposite wall, I gasped and the woman sitting next to me jumped right off her seat. And for once, Werther and Charlotte’s final scene is properly staged. The man is dying of blood loss and Kaufmann acts it superbly, lying prone for the most part and only able to stand with Charlotte’s considerable assistance (In the prior Met staging Werther was on his feet so much you expected him to finally shake it all off and go out for a beer).

“Werther” will be shown as part of the Met’s “Live in HD” series on March 15th. With Kaufmann and Koch, as well as two unusually vivid characterizations by Lisette Oropesa as Sophie and David Bizic as Albert, this is a performance that shouldn’t be missed.

 

Brain Bits for an Endless Winter

As I write this the New York metropolitan area is gearing up for yet another wave of snow, sleet and freezing rain. How much of the above we’re going to be socked with this time is still up in the air (no pun intended). We only know that the weather forecasters have been predicting doom for the last five days. Well, my refrigerator is stocked, my car’s gas tank is full and my boots and snow shovel are once more at the ready. I saw a robin on my front lawn yesterday afternoon, and while I refrained from asking “You lost, buddy?,” I still took heart. Spring will arrive—sometime.

______________________________________________

No gown was ever better wrecked

“Downton Abbey” just completed its fourth season here. My opinion? Kind of meh.

I’m not saying the show was without its charms: I’ll be interested in Lady Mary’s doings until the cows (or perhaps I should say, the pigs) come home. I’ve always liked the character, even at her bitchiest, and she’s got the type of self-awareness that’s enormously refreshing—she cuts to the heart of things, no matter whose feelings may be hurt. Tom Branson is still fun to watch, as are Carson and Mrs. Hughes, and I’d like Paul Giamatti to make a return visit as Harold Levenson, Cora’s brother. But the show now seems stuffy and predictable, especially if you’re a fan of “Last Tango in Halifax,” whose characters in no way have consistency in their lexicon. At this point you’re assured of the following in every “Downton Abbey” episode: a cutting quip and a snark at Isobel Crawley by the Dowager Countess, a Lady Edith misfortune, a block-headed remark by the Earl, a blackmail attempt by Barrow and an ambiguously sinister shot of Bates. The pattern has yet to change.

Despite all this, I’ll continue to watch “Downton Abbey” until its end. I just wish it had a little more zest in its storytelling and a little more oxygen in its atmosphere.

________________________________________________

That sound you hear is the rattling of sabres as management and labor gear up for contract talks at the Metropolitan Opera. Words are already being exchanged, what with General Manger Peter Gelb leading negotiations for the first time and Tino Gagliardi, head of the musicians’ union, vowing to seek oversight of the Met’s spending in order to prevent salary cuts and other givebacks.

There’s been a distressing pattern of musicians’ unions blinding themselves to significant changes in both the prevailing culture and the economy. This is no longer 1960, when arts programming was a regular feature on the handful of television channels in existence, Leonard Bernstein won Emmys for his “Young People’s Concerts” and most importantly, visual and musical arts were mandatory courses in public schools. Is it any wonder that audiences for classical music and opera have dwindled over the years, to the extent that box office receipts make up only one third of the Met’s income? Outreach programs are great, but nothing creates a lifelong interest in the arts like a thorough education such as my boomer generation received. Sadly, those times are gone.

I know very few people who weren’t impacted by the financial collapse of 2008 and its lingering aftermath. There’s a trickle-down effect on the arts after such disasters: over time contributions are curtailed if not eliminated, and patrons find themselves with less disposable income for ticket purchases. To put it bluntly, we’ve all had to suck it up during the last several years, and performers are not exempt from the new reality. If, as the Met claims, two-thirds of its expenses are labor costs, that’s the pool from which reductions should come first.

I would hate to see a strike or a lock-out at the Met. But the unions would better serve both their membership and the ticket-buying public by dealing in the real world.

____________________________________________

Gary Carter, N.Y. Mets

Once upon a time there was a future Hall of Fame catcher named Gary Carter. For five delirious years he was a New York Met, and a mainstay of that 1986 championship team. As a lifelong, diehard Mets fan, I loved watching him play.

Flash forward to a few days ago. I’ve been wanting to adopt another cat for several months, ever since poor Roger departed to the great litter box in the sky. I needed a mellow boy past kitten stage who could get along with Miss Teddi, a somewhat crotchety 16 year-old, and Gregory, a laid back 7 year-old built like a pro football linebacker.

Gary Carter, Cat

Is there a better name for a polydactyl cat whose front paws resemble catcher’s mitts? I can’t claim credit for his name: it said “Gary Carter” on his cat cubby at the shelter. Under the circumstances I couldn’t not take him, so now Mr. Carter is comfortably ensconced in his new surroundings. This young man blended in immediately with the other feline residents, and is simply one terrific cat.

Now if I could just get him to wear a baseball cap……

Falstaff

The Man Himself

Have the holidays got you down? Too much hustle and bustle? For the best attitude adjustment ever, try heading over to the Met for Robert Carsen’s production of Verdi’s “Falstaff.” You’ll find yourself walking on air.

The crowning glory of Verdi’s career, “Falstaff” distills his years of creativity to their essence. There’s not one wasted note or one errant phrase. It’s so fitting that Verdi’s final gift to the world should be a comedy whose musical pleasures never stop: the letter scene, with the Merry Wives of Windsor laughing in four-part harmony; the orchestral burst of pent-up anger that ends Ford’s “E sogno,” only to modulate to the silken strings that accompany Falstaff’s reappearance in his courting garb; that moment when we finally hear in full what the lovelorn Fenton has to say to Nanetta, only to be followed by her exquisite aria as Queen of the Fairies. As if there weren’t riches enough, the work ends with “Tutto nel mondo è burla,” a ten-part fugue that may be the most rewarding operatic conclusion ever written. Not to mention the fact that the orchestra itself never seems to stop laughing.

One of the best opera performances I ever saw was the 1992 Met revival, fortunately captured on DVD, featuring Paul Plishka as Falstaff with the incomparable quartet of Mirella Freni, Marilyn Horne, Susan Graham and Barbara Bonney. In a later season I suffered through a dead-on-arrival revival with Bryn Terfel as Falstaff, who sucked the air out of the auditorium. Even with a literally larger than life title character, this is above all an ensemble opera. Each of the ten soloists plays an important part, though it’s true some are more prominent than others, i.e., Dame Quickly. And it’s essential to have an Alice Ford who relishes the joke (which is why that Terfel revival, with Marina Mescheriakova as Alice, withered on the vine).

Robert Carsen’s version, a co-production with Covent Garden and several other companies, moves the setting to England in the 1950’s. Unlike some directors who update just for the sake of updating, Carsen honors Verdi’s (and Boito’s) intentions. And it’s been quite a while since I’ve seen costuming that so illuminates character: Quickly’s “Reverenza” ensemble, a black coat with a silk lining that matches her dress; Nanetta’s capris, Ford’s sober double-breasted gray suit, later outdone by his “Signor Fontana” outfit—pure Texas oilman, complete with fringed jacket, Stetson and bolo tie. The costumes are complemented by some marvelous sets, most prominently that fully equipped kitchen chez Ford, replete with checkered tiles, a center island and working stove.

“Falstaff” seems to have brought out Carsen’s best. The sight of Alice sailing through her kitchen atop that all-important laundry basket, rose clenched in her teeth, brought down the house. What a perfect idea to have the ladies compare Falstaff’s love letters over lunch at a swanky restaurant. And to see Fenton as a waiter at that same establishment, which once and for all explains why Ford opposes the match with his daughter. Perhaps best of all, Carsen actually stages the fugue by having the characters toast each other in an extended round robin; unlike the Met’s Zefirelli production, this is not just a stand and sing moment. And while we’re on the subject, I prefer Carsen’s version of the work. The Zeffirelli production, which premiered in 1964, was wonderful in its day, but it was time to see what other artists could bring to the table.

Merry Wives Cooking up More Plot

The cast is tremendous. Stephanie Blythe, with her impeccable timing, owns Dame Quickly. Last Saturday’s HD telecast was the first time I saw Angela Meade in an operatic role; it was a delightful surprise to see how well she plays comedy. With that skill and that voice, it’s about time the Met gave her a new production instead of casting her at the tail end of revivals. Jennifer Robinson Cano as Meg Page complemented her well, both visually and vocally. The Fenton, Paolo Finale, is quite a find–a lovely tenor di grazia (and incredibly cute to boot). And to cap the performance, Lisette Oropesa, who floated the final ascending phrase of Nanetta’s aria in one breath. Just stunning. When I returned home from the telecast, I popped my Falstaff DVD in to see if Barbara Bonney had managed that feat, but she, exemplary musician that she is, snatched a quick breath before the final four bars (but then again, Bonney had to cope with singing the first part of the aria on the back of an extremely restless horse).

Ambrogio Maestri has now sung the role of Falstaff over 200 times. His size, both horizontally and vertically (he’s 6’5″), and his voice amply (no pun intended) serve to create the character, though I missed that spark of self-awareness and cerebral wit that Paul Plishka and before him, Donald Gramm, brought to the role. Ford has got to be the most ungrateful role in the history of opera, aria or no, but Franco Vassallo turned in a thoughtful performance. However, his appearance did present a problem: Vassallo is probably around 5’10,” and against such a tall Falstaff, he was somewhat lost in the proceedings. A more physically imposing Ford would have been better.

This was the first new production James Levine has conducted since his return to the Met, and the reviews made me a bit apprehensive. However, it seemed things had settled down by the time of the HD telecast, which was certainly vintage Levine. And it goes without saying that the Met orchestra, one of the best in the world, responded marvelously.

If you missed the HD telecast and can’t make it to the Met, don’t despair—“Falstaff” will no doubt show up on PBS’s schedule in the months to come, and I suspect there’s a DVD release that’s forthcoming. It’s a definite keeper.

Britten’s Dream

Tytania (Kathleen Kim) and Bottom (Matthew Rose): Folie à deux to the max

The biggest downside to freelancing is that when you’re working, your time most definitely isn’t your own (hence the weeks between my blog posts). Fortunately these demands haven’t interfered with my opera-going: I recently had the pleasure of seeing the Met’s revival of Britten’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” twice. And the exhilaration I felt when Puck, having the last word, flew like Peter Pan, lasted for several days.

Britten’s operas always surprise me. Not in the events of the drama, but in the sound his works produce. Think of “Billy Budd'”s aged Captain Vere fighting through brain fog in the opera’s Prologue, the crew’s mysterious shanty, their unearthly rumbling when Billy is executed. “Peter Grimes” is full of these moments. While you expect a duet from Peter and Ellen Orford, that searing unison vocal line, blending seamlessly into the first Sea Interlude, is electrifying. And despite all the foreshadowing, the chorus, calling Grimes out fortissimo, has to be one of the most chilling sounds to be heard in the opera house.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream” is the comic side of this coin. What a stroke of genius to make Oberon a countertenor. Britten’s music for him is properly unearthly–this King of the Faeries has quite a dark side. Correspondingly his vocal line lies in the lower and middle countertenor range, an ambiguous place for this voice to be. He’s almost, but not quite, human—and almost, but not quite, androgynous. Iestyn Davies, whom I had only heard previously in a small role in Thomas Adès’ “The Tempest” gave a powerful performance—the role and the singer really made the case for this vocal category in the opera house.

At the other end of the spectrum are the so-called Mechanicals—the artisans who will present the story of Pyramus and Thisbe to honor the marriage of Theseus and Hippolyta. Bass Matthew Rose was ridiculously right as the weaver, Nick Bottom. His physical agility and the fluency of a lovely voice made him incredibly endearing in his scene with the besotted Tytania (Britten’s spelling). His request to the faeries who tend him (“Scratch my face–I am such a tender ass”) brought the house down. No wonder Tytania (soprano Kathleen Kim) called him her “gentle joy.”

Every measure of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” seems incredibly right. Britten has a marvelous time incorporating so many musical influences: English folk song, Elizabethan dance, 19th century Italian opera for the quartet of lovers, and best of all, a bit of bel canto madness for Flute’s big lamentation as Thisbe. So many moments stand out: the string glissandi that signal we’re in Oberon’s world, the staccato solo trumpet and high drum that accompany Puck (a speaking role), and the comic setting of the word “moonlight,” which provides a consistent laugh every time the Mechanicals sing it. And most of all, that final faerie chorus supporting Tytania’s voice, seems to make time stop. This is such a magical work.

James Conlon, whom I wish would conduct more at the Met, led a superb performance. The artists were exceptionally well-matched, particularly the quartet of lovers: Erin Wall, Elizabeth DeShong (who will be singing Hermia again in the Met’s revival of “The Enchanted Island”), Joseph Kaiser and Michael Todd Simpson. And it goes without saying that the children’s chorus was phenomenal, easily producing the ethereal sound Britten’s score demands.

This year marks the hundredth anniversary of Benjamin Britten’s birth. What a way to honor his achievements.

Brain Bits for a Snowy Saturday

We’re one day past the Ides of February, and snow flakes the size of quarters are falling outside my window. Pitchers and catchers have reported to spring training, Punxsutawney Phil did not see his shadow, yet we’re still stuck in neutrals of brown, gray and above all, white. Where are you, warm weather?

_____________________________________________________

Fans of the Metropolitan Opera Live in HD broadcasts are definitely in for a treat today when the new production of”Rigoletto” gets beamed ’round the world. Director Michael Mayer has set the opera in Rat Pack-era Las Vegas, 1960, and amazingly, it works. That being said, I think the HD audience will enjoy it even more than I did when I saw the production live in the house this past Tuesday. The problem is this: while the setting is a great deal of fun, it’s enormously distracting when the curtain goes up and you’re looking at a neon-lit casino, with wall-to-wall roulette and blackjack tables, men in leopard print dinner jackets and Countess Ceprano swanning about as Marilyn Monroe. My eyes felt like pinwheels trying to take all this in, to the extent that Piotr Bezcala’s “Questa o quella” barely registered (though he does rock a mean mic). With the HD cameras directing the view, this busy-ness should be lessened considerably.

Tragedy in a Cadillac

Nitpickers will carp that depicting Monterone as an Arab Sheik is ridiculous, and that even Sinatra didn’t have an entourage the size of the army that hangs around the Duke (no wonder Gilda is terrified). It didn’t bother me because the game was worth the candle. As Peter Sellars did with his “Nozze di Figaro,” set in the Trump Tower (one of the best opera productions I ever saw), Mayer gets the soul of the work. In “Rigoletto,” Verdi forces us to examine a milieu that’s enticing but corrupt to the core, that grinds out innocence and destroys love. I always thought setting this in Studio 54 during the cocaine ’70’s would be a great idea, but I like Mayer’s idea so much more.

As to the music, Diana Damrau, a wonderful Gilda, sang perhaps the best “Caro nome” I’ve ever heard. Piotr Beczala had a few pinched high notes at the outset, which really surprised me, but Conductor Michele Mariotti did him no favors. Fortunately Beczala soon sounded like his normal self, ultimately delivering a tremendous “La donne è mobile.” Željiko Lucic broke my heart when he confronted the Duke’s courtiers, Stefan Kocan was an amusingly suave Sparafucile, and the last act quartet, featuring mezzo Oksana Volkova as one hot-to-trot Maddalena, was outstanding.

If you can’t make it to today’s HD, there’s always an encore presentation to look forward to, as well as the PBS telecast during the summer. Enjoy!

_______________________________________________________

While I was tempted to hold my comments until after tomorrow night’s season finale, I have to say “Downton Abbey” has made a terrific comeback from the doldrums of Sybil’s death, its impact on Robert and Cora’s marriage and the wrangling over a Catholic baptism for baby Sybil. Nearly everyone, both above and below stairs, has either returned to form or even better.

The best show in town, hands down, was the Dowager Countess and Isabel Crawley singing that old duet, “Anything You Can Snark, I Can Snark Better.” Talk about moxie—Violet places an ad to get poor Ethel hired out-of-town? Without talking to Isabel, her employer, first? I know rank has its privilege, but come on. It seemed even she finally realized that her meddling better go the whole route and come down on the side of the angels. So voila—the Dowager works her magic to smooth the way for Ethel to take a post near her son’s grandparents where she’ll be able to see her boy again. Violet 1, Nasty Grandpa 0.

Of course karma paid a visit by saddling her with Rose, that 18 year-old wild child of a grandniece. Is having a (distantly) related Bright Young Thing suddenly appearing out of the blue somehow mandatory in British period drama? This started with Georgianna in the original “Upstairs, Downstairs,” only to recur with that naughty Nazi sympathizer, Lady Persephone, in the show’s recent incarnation. We know it’s now 1920-something in “Downton Abbey”-land, which gives Julian Fellows license to feature basement jazz joints and aristocrats gone wild, but how clichéd can you get? Rose is already a major pain, but her scenes were worth enduring just to see Matthew burst her bubble: “Married men always have horrid wives.”

Speaking of Matthew and the Department of Fecundity, we all knew that his spinal cord injury had nothing to do with the absence of a Matthew or Mary Jr. Now that Mary has set things right, gynecologically speaking (nice bit of continuity that she used her American grandma’s name for a cover—at least she was good for something) we can get on with the next generation. And finally we had some teasing and flirting between the two of them, what with all the sturm und drang of a nearly bankrupt Downton. I’ve gone back to really liking Mary in the last two episodes—siding with Tom over the baby’s baptism and finally hopping on the Matthew Express Train of Success, because her old man’s ideas about how to run an estate seem to be even stodgier than himself.

Truly allies at last

I’m of two minds about Edith’s storyline. On the one hand, I love seeing her all modern and out and about in the world (the clothes are fabulous). Her editor is an engaging sort, but why is she being forced into playing Jane Eyre, what with his crazy wife in an asylum? On the Tom front, I’m glad I was wrong about his fate—it’ll be great to see him run Downton as the estate’s agent, and I’m enjoying his closeness to Cora. His confrontation with his drunken brother below stairs was so impressive that he finally (and rightly) won Carson over at long last.

I don’t understand the hubbub about Thomas and the confusion over who was egging James on. Aren’t these people wise to what an intriguer O’Brien is, especially now that she’s obviously looking after her nephew’s interests? Everyone from Lord Grantham to Daisy was aware Thomas was gay, so big deal. Nevertheless, it was worth following all the twists and turns of the story just to hear the Earl’s crack about being kissed at Eton and seeing O’Brien blanch after Bates whispered Thomas’s magic words in her ear.

Finally, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I don’t think Bates’s release from prison is the end of the story. See, I thought all along he killed his wife, and I sense there’s a lot more in his past that’s going to come out. To me there’s something not quite right about the man. We’ll see what the future holds on that score.

Mezzo Magic

Susan Graham as Dido

I had the pleasure this past week of seeing the Metropolitan Opera on its best behavior. And not once, but twice. This doesn’t always happen—as yesterday’s broadcast of “Il Trovatore” can attest—but when it does, the results are amazing.

First up was the live HD telecast of Berlioz’s “Les Troyens,” that five-and-a-half hour marathon of war and peace. I was supposed to see this ten years ago at the Met, but a blizzard stopped me from even getting to the train station (Had I made it into New York, I would have seen the late Lorraine Hunt Lieberson as Dido. Talk about a missed opportunity). So after a very long intermission I finally got to see this epic, the length of which rivals “Götterdammerung.”

Susan Graham’s performance as Dido was astonishing. It’s not often that a singer’s voice, intelligence and characterization all come together at such a high level of artistry. I had seen her in “La Damnation de Faust,” I’ve got her recording of “Béatrice et Benedict,” two other Berlioz operas, but what she brought to “Les Troyens” was in another realm altogether. Her voice has lost virtually nothing over the years; she was the Queen of Carthage.

Fortunately her Aeneas was worthy of her. Bryan Hymel, a 33-year old native of Lousiana, stepped in to replace Marcello Giordani, and the result couldn’t have been better. He’s a powerful tenor who should have a great career ahead of him—he can act and he’s got presence. When he and Susan Graham sang their love duet in Act Four, you believed it. Joyce DiDonato was the host of the HD telecast, and I particularly enjoyed the intermission interview with Graham and Hymel. It seemed to be refreshingly unscripted—the two mezzos, alluding to their many trouser roles, traded joking compliments (“You look good in a dress.” “So do you.”) and the discussion that followed regarding Hymel’s Met debut in such a killer role was a great deal of fun.

Three days after the telecast I saw Joyce DiDonato as Donizetti’s “Maria Stuarda” at the Met. If ever there was a performer who held an audience in the palm of her hand, she did. No coughing or program rustling from the audience when DiDonato sang an aria—the entire auditorium went dead quiet just to hear what embellishments she would bring to the vocal line. The intense attention has been well-earned: she’s one of the best musicians I’ve ever heard on the opera stage. When she sings a line I can almost see the notes on the music staff. DiDonato certainly delivers.

“Maria Stuarda”–the Confrontation

However, I found the opera itself to be a bit of a letdown. While the first half, ending with Maria’s hurling “vil bastarda!” at Queen Elizabeth (soprano Elza van den Heever with shaved head in her Met debut), is excellent, the second half, after the Elizabeth/Leicester duet, does drag. And I wasn’t all that crazy about the production, especially the last two scenes. When did properly lighting a scene become a lost art? Yes, I know Maria is imprisoned and I don’t expect the set to look like high noon, but the audience should be able to see who’s on stage with her. I thought Donizetti’s “Anna Bolena” was a lot more fun. Anna gets a historically inaccurate mad scene before she marches off to the headsman, which I prefer to Maria’s saintly exit, no matter how lovely the music.

There’s been some carping about “Maria”‘s casting switcheroo. Although mezzos have portrayed the title role in the past, it’s usually a soprano Maria paired with a mezzo Elizabeth, a role Joyce DiDonato has in fact sung. Yes, she’s transposed some of the music down, but then Joan Sutherland used to transpose arias up to put the line in her soprano range. And is total adherence to historical tradition always a plus or even feasible? The countertenors singing today are not castrati, who were able to produce a sound the likes of which we’ll never hear. Luckily no one gives up that much for their art these days.

And speaking of tradition and departures therefrom, the Met’s new production of “Rigoletto,” set in Rat Pack-era Las Vegas, will soon make its debut. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Paying Your Money….and Taking Your Choice

Well….I had planned to expound at length on the glories of Erich Korngold, Bernard Herrmann and Max Steiner as promised last week, but Zachary Woolfe’s article in the Sunday New York Times about the Metropolitan Opera’s HD telecasts is just too tempting to let pass. Normally I can’t abide Mr. Woolfe or his usually half-cocked reviews, but I must say this particular discussion is spot on.

As you can tell from this blog, I have the good fortune to live in the New York metropolitan area, which means I have ready access to the Met, Carnegie Hall and numerous other venues where I can experience live opera and classical music performances. I’ve been a Metropolitan Opera subscriber for 25 years, and was a New York City Opera subscriber for a number of years prior to that. To date I’ve seen the Met’s simultaneous HD telecasts of “Le Comte Ory” and “The Enchanted Island” and many more when shown later on PBS. So being a veteran and all, the only thing I can say in response to “Are the HD telecasts good or bad for opera?” is:

What’s the big deal?

Caruso recording for RCA, 1902

Metropolitan Opera performances have been broadcast on PBS since the late 1970’s. Yes, there’s a big difference in the quality of sound between hearing an opera live and seeing it on a television or movie screen, but this goes with the territory. People who carp about it are Luddites, in my opinion, who probably would have strangled the recording industry in its cradle. But the opera singers who first stepped into the recording booth not long after the turn of the last century saw this as a wonderful way to bring their art to the widest possible audience in addition to preserving their legacy, in much the same fashion as many of today’s singers view the telecasts. Nevertheless, recorded sound can lie, and I’m not talking about the limits of the acoustical horn. The voices of some singers are simply not flattered by the studio product, Beverly Sills being a prime example (her voice was always more full and varied in color in the house). And the Metropolitan Opera radio broadcasts, which began in the early 1930’s, don’t always tell the truth either—you get no sense of the size of a voice since the mikes are placed at the lip of the stage and immediately overhead. So the critics are not raising a new issue.

In terms of drama, however, the HD telecasts are just the thing for opera lovers whose priorities include good theater as opposed to just “park and bark” opera. They feature the type of immediacy that few live performances can muster unless you have the money for an orchestra seat (but then what you hear would be subpar, because opera always sounds better in the Family Circle). “Le Comte Ory” in HD was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen, and not just because of the intricate staging of the final ménage à trois—the singers’ facial expressions were a wonderful accompaniment to the in-bed gymnastics, thus demonstrating that binoculars are not always a substitute for close-ups. Similarly, the camera was able to catch sight of a single tear on the cheek of Anna Netrebko as the dying Antonia in “Les Contes d’Hoffman,” thus making her character’s fate even more poignant. But there are drawbacks. The HD audience has to work a bit harder to suspend its disbelief when viewing the opening scene of “Der Rosenkavalier,” because, let’s face it, Susan Graham, no matter how resourceful, can’t really resemble the 17-year-old boy that Octavian is supposed to be. And the camera literally pierces the veil during the Met’s wonderful production of “Madama Butterfly” because we can see the faces of the bunraku puppeteers who bring Cio-Sio-San’s little son to life.

In the final analysis I do think the HD telecasts are the “next best thing” to seeing live opera. While there’s no real substitute for acoustic sound (and you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Wagner—live—create the world in the key of E-flat major at the start of “Das Rheingold”) the dramatic rewards of HD opera are plentiful. And let’s be honest—it’s the rare person who’s got the time and the money to see everything on their operatic wish list live on any given occasion, or in many cases even to travel to an opera house at all. Not everything on my Hit Parade made it onto my Met subscription series for next season, so I’m glad I’ll still get to see “Les Troyens” and “The Tempest” at a movie theater near me.

One feature of the HD telecasts, though, is extremely important—every showing includes a public service announcement urging the audience to seek out a nearby opera company and experience a live performance. No better advice can be given, but with bankruptcies of numerous regional companies and orchestras, the availability of the HD telecasts is not a luxury—it’s a necessity if the art form is to survive. And for those of us who love it, we’ll take it however we can get it.