Busoni: Doktor Faust
Metropolitan Opera
New York City, January 29, 2001
Opera lovers are notoriously “traditional.” By this, I mean that they tend to like only what they know, and they want it to sound just the way it always has. That’s fine for the two hundredth La Traviata, or even the tenth Wozzeck, but all bets are off when confronting a work as unfamiliar as Ferruccio Busoni’s magnum opus Doktor Faust. Hardly more evolved than most opera lovers and, thus, certain I would hate this “modern” opera from the 1920s, I planned to ignore the Met’s premiere of Doktor Faust. Tuning in late to the Saturday afternoon broadcast out of curiosity just to catch a glimpse of the idiom, I heard music so ravishingly beautiful that I was spellbound for the rest of the afternoon. Cursing my arrogance at dismissing an untried masterpiece, I hurried to the Metropolitan Opera to catch the season’s final performance of Doktor Faust.
Musically, the mighty Met gave the opera everything they had. It is a gorgeous score in a style at once comfortingly familiar and totally strange, like music from another solar system which one somehow has the ability to apprehend completely and with effortless pleasure. Although the program notes contain a long essay in which drama critic John Simon apologizes fulsomely for the composer’s supposed lack of melody, I found Doktor Faust to be three solid hours of pure melody, rich, mysterious, and ever-unfolding. The orchestra seems to be the most important “voice” in this opera, and for conductor Philippe Auguin the Met forces played this dream music like angels. Auguin chose to emphasize the music’s sensuous beauty rather than its angularity, as does Kent Nagano on a new complete recording from Erato, and this made the effect all the more inviting. Of course the other important voice is that of the protagonist, and in Thomas Hampson both the Met and its audiences were home free. It is a long role, and Hampson sang it with unfailing beauty of tone and unflagging stamina while his fine intellect addressed the opera’s philosophical concepts with unusual, satisfying depth. He grandly filled the house with Doktor Faust’s presence while giving the text all of the clarity and intimacy of a lieder recital. It was magnificent work showing the full extent of Faust’s humanity as the residue of his goodness coexisted with the evil of a man who would bargain with the Devil.
As Mephistopheles, Faust’s nemesis, tenor Robert Brubaker used the role’s curiously high tessitura to give his character an intriguing, edgy power, the power to really get under one’s skin. The other Faust composers give us a sonorous, basso devil; Busoni’s is a high-pitched whiner; sneaky, sleazy, and joyously treacherous. The Dutchess of Parma is the only female role in the opera (unless you count the “Three Voices from On High,” and I don’t, as they form part of the overall instrumental texture), and having her sung by Katarina Dalayman is about as luxurious as casting ever gets. Her spectacularly beautiful soprano, as rich in color as a mezzo, poured her musical lines over the others of this score, making for some lavish, mesmerizing effects.
The men of the ensemble sang with instrumental precision, completing the impression of careful, painstaking musical preparation. As Asmodus, one of the Spirit Voices, Egyptian baritone Kamel Butros produced a dark, cavernous sound that was chilling, highly appropriate, and effective for a minion of Satan. I found this surprising, as the first (and last) time I heard this remarkable singing musician, he manifested only lightness and fleet charm as Papageno in OONY’s Temple of Dendur Die Zauberflöte. As the soldier whose sister was seduced and abandoned by Faust, Mark Oswald had only one aria and a brief scene. He avoided the trap of sticky sentimentality and infused the music with handsome tone, giving this victim of Faust’s cruelty a remarkable amount of humanity that effectively underscored the destruction that followed in the wake of the Doktor’s cavalier use of other people.
I found this opera that deals in philosophical and religious concepts— the very nature of man and how power corrupts even a noble spirit — balm to nerves used to the bombast of the more conventional conflicts of opera’s greatest hits. This performance of Busoni’s magnificent score catapulted Doktor Faust to the top of my current list of favorite operas. I can’t imagine a more musically satisfying interpretation.
The staging by Peter Mussback was quite another matter. It was so far away from the intentions of the composer/librettist that the program had to carry special notes from the director explaining what he was trying to do. Now, if that isn’t self-evident from actually watching a production, the effort cannot be called successful in my opinion. Having been forewarned by the critics, I had done some homework to fill in the blanks before attending the performance. I am thankful that I did, because on the basis of what happened on the Met’s stage, I would have been hard-pressed to follow the action and would have missed most of the salient plot points. I strongly question the wisdom of presenting the house premiere of a work unfamiliar to the public in a production that contradicts or completely ignores most of the information one needs to understand the piece. Set Designer Erich Wonder and Costume Designer Andrea Schmidt-Futterer filled the stage with tedious, stark, modern cliches, even down to the bleak railroad tracks (in the middle of Faust’s laboratory!) and the ubiquitous Eurotrash raincoats on all of the men. When the moving props, handcars, etc. took on a life of their own, it was a life parallel to, but never connecting with, the music and the text. In essence, there were two shows running simultaneously: the score and the staging. Seldom did the twain meet. Nevertheless, the privilege of hearing the Met devote its incomparable forces to this heavenly/hellish score was reward enough for me. They could have done it in blackface under a circus tent and I would have had a good time just listening to this exalted music making.
—Freeman Günter
Verdi: Aïda
Metropolitan Opera
New York City, January 30, 2001
Aïda is one of my favorite operas, one in which I know every word and am familiar with all historical precedents. It is an opera I don’t even like to attend unless there is the distinct possibility for some Golden Age enchantments. The Met debut of Mark Delavan as Amonasro seemed likely to provide this, and the presence of Luciano Pavarotti, late in the day but still game to sing Radames, promised thrills and possibly spills and chills.
The broadcast of January 27 served to whet my appetite for the live experience of the 30th. On the radio, Pavarotti’s celebrated timbre was intact and present all afternoon except for some hoarse-sounding, croony passages in places calling for messa de voce. But in exposed moments when his presence was absolutely required, it was there and impressive. Delavan was everything I expected and more. His tone was intense and powerful. His dramatic focus and diction packed a bite, a highly specific charge reminiscent of Tito Gobbi. The first time he addressed Aïda in the Nile scene, the hair on the back of my neck stood up. On radio, Deborah Voigt’s soprano had a huge, steady, gleaming appeal with a bloom at the top that gave me shivers of delight. When her Aïda joined forces with the gorgeous tonal richness, subtle phrasing, and often startlingly telling line readings of Olga Borodina’s Amneris in the Second Act confrontation scene, I got those Golden Age tingles for sure, and was reminded of some celebrated early 20th century pairings on antique gramophone records. Although a colleague who heard this performance live told me Borodina sounded smallish in the role, I couldn’t wait to hear the two of them live.
In the house on the 30th, my Golden Age expectations were knocked down a notch the moment I opened the program. Borodina was out; Barbara Dever was in. A strong, reliable singer who can deliver all of Amneris’ notes clearly, loudly, and on target, Dever proceeded to sing through the role in dependable fashion without ever addressing the pathos, drama, and mystery of this Egyptian princess, to say nothing of Verdi’s designation that she be “young and impressionable.” Like all conventional Amneris impersonations, Dever’s was a shrew, a battle-ax. The force of the orchestration dictates that this role usually gets this kind of unvaryingly loud and monochromatic blast. Dever is the kind of dependable Amneris that general directors love to have on the roster but I am always reluctant to shell out the big bucks to subject myself to.
Voigt’s Aïda was less impressive in person. The radio mikes had caught a bloom that tended to get lost in the house, and there was a lack of focus in the middle voice that robbed the singing of absolute cleanness of pitch. Her Italian pronunciation left much to be desired, and, most troubling of all, she never sang a true piano, much less a pianissimo. Her Aïda was all on one dynamic level: full-out, loud and clear. Voigt sang a strong, pleasing Aïda, much more than serviceable, but she missed the fascinating light and shade and that relaxed sense of elegant musical repose that is a hallmark of a truly great one. She’s getting better and better in the part, though, and I would definitely take another chance on her assumption in the future.
Pavarotti had given his all on the radio and there wasn’t much left for the 30th. Watching him gingerly stepping around and sitting down at every opportunity did not foster an image of strength. From “Celeste Aïda” it became obvious that Verdi’s markings were going to be ignored. The main objective was not shaping the music as the Master indicated, but instead making the aging tenor sound as good as possible by hurrying him over the treacherous patches and allowing him to spend as much time as possible on his still dependable “money notes.” The tone was big and distinctive, except for those husky dropouts, but his energy really flagged in the Third Act. In his duet with Aïda, he came so close to a vocal collapse that my companion turned to me at the curtain and asked, “What is he going to do?” echoing my own fears for the final scenes. We expected a cancellation, but he returned after a slightly overlong intermission and sang the Judgement Scene and the final duet with miraculously renewed strength.
If Pavarotti performed like a tough old lion defending his territory, Mark Delavan, as Amonasro, looked like that lion on stage. Magnificently costumed, made up and be-wigged in grey dreadlocks, he was the greatest Amonasro of my experience. In person, the voice had all of the intensity I had heard on the radio plus great size and physical presence in the house. Delavan was the only person on the entire Met stage who really believed in the drama and tried to bring it to life. While everyone else posed, stood, and sang, he lived his part. When acting opposite other singers, Delevan refused to let them get away, engaging them fully in the moment. For at least the time they were face to face with him, some of his drama rubbed-off on them, too.
On this occasion, Maestro James Levine showed that he has no ideas to bring to this opera at all. Ignoring the atmosphere, beauty and subtlety that others find in this music, he clomped through the evening making this sublime score as ordinary, as “rumpty-tump,” as he possibly could. Taking a cue from their leader, the Met orchestra phoned it in, treating us to many imprecise attacks, sloppy brass entrances and instrumental solos way out of scale for the overall proportion of the piece. Golden Age, fuggetaboutit! On this night, the action in the orchestra pit didn’t even rise to the level of mediocrity. You pays your money and you takes your chances.
—Freeman Günter
Rossini: Il Barbiere di Siviglia
The Washington Opera
Washington, DC, January 12, 2001
The Washington Opera presented a competent production of Rossini’s Il Barbiere di Siviglia at Kennedy Center’s Eisenhower Theater, alternating two or three singers for each role. Except for the Rosina, most of this cast was the second to perform the opera.
As Figaro, Alfredo Daza was delightful. He has a lovely, rich lyric baritone voice and knows how to use it, keeping up very nicely with some insanely fast tempi. His stage presence was adorable, making for a lovable, cuddly Figaro who fit the light, silly approach of the production and stage direction but whom one cannot imagine evolving into the Figaro of Mozart’s opera.
Angeles Blancas sang impressively as a soprano Rosina, negotiating the coloratura and ornaments easily and beautifully, with lovely phrasing. The steely beauty of her voice, especially her top, made one not care that her low tones were not very convincing. Hers is not a voice one generally thinks of in an “ina” role — one can hear in her voice the Queen of the Night or Lucrezia Borgia — but her performance worked, emphasizing the strength of Rosina’s character more than her coquettishness or petulance. For most of her portrayal, it was hard to imagine this Rosina becoming Mozart’s countess, but her surprise and obeisance when Lindoro was revealed to be Almaviva (the turning of the class tables) made the fate of Mozart’s countess seem inevitable.
There was much to like in Joseph Calleja’s Almaviva. He was a good match for his Rosina in size and quality of voice, offering steely tone wrapped in a lovely sweetness. He gave a very engaging, outgoing performance, in step with Mr. Daza’s Figaro. My only reservation has to do with Calleja’s very fast vibrato. This was not a problem in florid sections of the music, which were negotiated with beauty and ease. However, in the lyrical, legato sections, especially the serenades of the first scene, this vibrato was not pleasant, and some inconsistency among the parts of the voice became apparent. Given his very young age (reported to be 23), he should have ample opportunity to refine his technique.
Baritone William Parcher sang very well as Dr. Bartolo. He has a sizable, rich voice, with plenty of flexibility, and enough bass timbre to fill out a “basso buffo” role. His performance was effective, but it wasn’t in any way the traditional buffo Bartolo. His was no commedia dell’arte caricature, but a dignified, upstanding member of the community. His desire to marry Rosina seemed to have little to do with any base instinct, but seemed more a desire for control, as if there were money rather than sex at stake.
Bass Rosendo Flores was a wonderful, young-looking, charmingly clueless Don Basilio. He has a lovely, lyric quality to his bass, and was hysterically funny in “La calunnia.” Mezzo soprano Laura Zuiderveen was a funny Berta, always fussing and cleaning up the scattered papers or thrown books and pillows of her emotional charges. James Shaffran displayed in the small role of Fiorello a much richer, larger voice than one commonly hears in this role.
The conducting of Maestro Valdivieso showed some very nice phrasings, as in the lyric sections of the overture. However, the ensemble was sometimes not precise, with tempi that were sometimes far too fast for the singers to negotiate cleanly. While the ensembles never completely fell apart, they sounded rushed and imprecise. One wishes the conductor had enough confidence in Rossini’s operatic genius to take a realistic tempo. The men’s chorus had good tone, but they also had difficulty with some of the very fast tempi.
Perhaps the fast tempi would have been less bothersome if the stage director had permitted the singers to stand still every once in awhile. One doesn’t need to have the “stand and sing” school of stage direction, but there was so much business, one hoped for director Leon Major to slow the action for contrast from time to time. The First Act finale was staged in the same manner as when the opera was last staged here, five years ago, using an arbitrary and annoying “grape vine” staging of the final section, a kind of bobbing, left-then-right line dance. It may have seemed a cute idea the first time, but its repetition makes it appear that the director cannot think of another way to stage the opera.
The physical production (scenery by Allen Moyer, costumes by James Scott, lighting by Joan Sullivan-Genthe) is also the same used 5 years ago, and it neither impresses nor offends. Its conceit is that the action takes place in a 19th century Italian theater, with candled-chandelier and stage lights, painted trompe l’oeil flats, painted people in painted side-balconies at either side of the proscenium, and stark, high-contrast lighting. The costumes had the bright colors and comic appearance of a commedia dell’arte puppet show, and the small puppet stage hanging from the rafters before the start of the opera reinforced this impression.
—Margaret Harrison
Menotti: The Consul
The Washington Opera
Washington, DC, January 19, 2001
The outstanding vocalism and acting of soprano Beverly O’Regan Thiele as Magda was both the highlight and the catalyst for a fabulous performance of Gian Carlo Menotti’s opera The Consul at The Kennedy Center’s Eisenhower Theater on the eve of the presidential inauguration. Ms. Thiele produced audience tears with her big aria, “To This We’ve Come,” and her portrayal of Magda was electric in a way that seemed to add spark to the performances of every other cast member. Her voice on the surface seems too light for the role. Her tone has a bright, girlish quality that would be perfectly appropriate for a Mimi or a Gilda. But the heavy drama of this role (over the light orchestral forces devised by the composer) sounded surprisingly easy and natural in her voice. An outstanding technique allowed gorgeous pianissimo high notes to coexist with anguished-sounding (but never ugly) chest tones, beautifully sung, in-tune straight-tone parlando, and beautiful forte full-vibrato opera singing. Physically, Ms. Thiele displayed a delicate, fragile appearance and manner which was consistent with the sound of her voice and which made her character’s anguish poignant and her suicide inevitable, rather than merely a 19th century-style melodramatic plot device.
Victor Benedetti was believable as freedom fighter John Sorel, and the first act love duet (turning into a trio with the mother) was one of the vocal and musical high points of the opera, providing chills from the sheer vocal beauty of the combined tones of the singers. Kathleen Segar’s mother was also very effective vocally and dramatically, with rich and beautiful chest tones, and a lovely “Lullaby,” though her make-up and gray hair colordidn’t convince one of her old age.
Julia Anne Wolf’s Secretary was wonderfully sung and chillingly acted. Her always beautiful and well-produced tone had a frigid vocal quality that personified the cold banality of thoughtless-but-deadly bureaucracy. The character was portrayed as hateful, but not evil: she was simply an ordinary person who lacked imagination and a sense of humor working a 9-to-5 job. Her character’s uniform response to the saddest of tales was “What do you expect me to do?” and “Fill out this form and come back tomorrow.” The effect of her treatment of her visa applicants was as deadly as that of the intentional acts of the Secret Police Agent (chillingly portrayed and
beautifully sung by bass-baritone John Marcus Bindel). Ms. Wolf’s portrayal of anguish in reaction to Magda’s “Papers” outburst seemed real and human, the proverbial 2-by-4 to the head that finally provoked action outside the rules, though too late to save Magda and John. And her subsequent portrayal of ecstatic joy in the Third Act’s “Sign on the dotted line” duet with Barbara McAlister’s Vera Boronel was the key not only to her character but also to the point of Menotti’s opera.
Each of the supporting roles was well-sung and effectively acted. Robert Baker’s magician was an audience favorite. In his second-act aria, he produced ringing, bright tones, while simultaneously convincing with his magic tricks. Mary Gresock’s Anna Gomez and Randa Rouweyha’s Foreign Woman were beautifully sung and poignantly acted personifications of the desperate “Faces” that the Secretary’s rule-focus can’t obliterate. Herbert Eckhoff sang with a lovely, rich tone as Mr. Kofner, who was endlessly told to return “the next day and the day after that and the day after that” because his photographs were the wrong size and his affidavit wasn’t notarized. And J. Austin Bitner’s Assan was nicely sung and believable as a young, blond, risk-taking freedom fighter.
The orchestra sounded terrific under conductor Joel Revzen. Though the forces were small (there couldn’t have been many more than 40 musicians in the small pit), the string sound was rich, and the musicians seemed comfortable and at ease with the music. Zack Brown’s sets and costumes were intentionally claustrophobic and dreary. The consulate waiting room had the look of people-unfriendly public spaces—marble pillars, cold stone-tile floor, wooden benches, row after row of filing cabinets, harsh lighting, and the secretary’s desk a step higher than her “victims.” The stage direction by the composer (assisted by frequent Washington Opera stage director Roman Terlekyj) was effective, and authoritative by definition. Menotti’s genius is writing for the stage, with the music in the orchestral accompaniment “describing” the non-vocal stage action. The uniformly excellent diction of every singer (with English consonants and vowels to die for) must have been influenced by the composer’s presence and availability for coaching. With this cast it appears he got just want he wanted.
—Margaret Harrison
