Now here is a rarity: an Italian opera, nearly 100 years old, worthy of being produced at the Met, that I had never seen before. (Someone once asked me whether I had seen every opera ever written, and I had to tell her no, there are operas that I know of that I have not seen, operas that I have never heard of, even opera composers that I have never heard of.) Francesca da Rimini is rare enough that the previous Met performance was in 1986, 27 years ago. It’s based on a short passage in Canto 5 of The Inferno, although it’s a longer passage than the very few lines that served as the basis for Gianni Schicchi.
They made fabulous sets in 1986 (or 1984, when the opera was produced for the first time since 1926). Act 1 was set in Francesca’s palace. The lovely marble floor led a few steps up to a landing, with stairs left and right ascending to a balcony; the walls above and below the steps were of the same lovely marble. In back of the balcony was a huge window, as tall as the Met stage and a third as wide, that looked out on meadows and trees, with a couple of very tall trees visible above balcony level. Back at the landing, there was a small flower garden, from which Francesca plucked a rose to give to Paolo at the end of the act.
Things got much darker for Act 2. We saw part of the ramparts of Giovanni’s castle, a tall wooden tower made of gigantic (8x8?) timbers, with a first story and a second story. To the right and left there were wooden structures, thicker than just walls, with drawbridges that later in the act were lowered to connect with the tower in the center. When the act opened there was a hemispherical brass cauldron, but when it came time to douse the attacking Ghibellines with boiling oil, this cauldron had been replaced by a brass bull’s head.
For Act 3 we were in Francesca’s bedroom, with a small bed on a platform four steps above the main floor. The elaborate headboard (the design could also serve for a balcony railing) was at the right; the same design was also used to form a “sideboard” behind the bed that we could look straight at. To the left was a pedestal supporting a circular shelf on which a page of a handwritten, illuminated book (presumably the story of Lancelot and Guinevere) was displayed. Subtle tapestries hung on the walls, and in the center was another tall window, though much narrower than the one in Act 1.
Act 4 has two scenes. Scene 1 must have been set in a prison, for there was a hatch that Malatestino could open to descend below stage to behead an unnamed prisoner, whose significance to the story remained a mystery. Four steps above the stage was a rustic wooden table made out of 6x6 timbers, and a couple of rude stools to go with it. In the center, at back, was another wooden tower, which could even have been the tower of Act 2, with a circular staircase in it. To the left and right of the tower were racks of pikes. Scene 2 was back in Francesca’s bedroom, looking a bit different this time. Instead of one tall window, there were half a dozen smaller windows with arched tops arranged left to right. But it was the same bed.
Our cast:
Francesca: Eva-Maria Westbroek
Paolo, her lover, “Paolo the Fair”: Marcello Giordani
Giovanni, her husband, “Gianciotto the Lame”: Mark Delavan
Malatestino, brother of both Paolo and Giovanni: Robert Brubaker
Smaragdi, Francesca’s slave: Ginger Costa-Jackson
Conductor: Marco Armiliato
Production: Piero Faggioni
Set Designer: Ezio Frigerio
When an opera isn’t produced for 27 years (or 58), there’s got to be a reason. Perhaps it’s the fact that three intermissions and five set changes are necessary. More likely is that there’s not enough action to fill four hours in the opera house. (A comment overheard at the first intermission: “This opera makes Parsifal seem speedy.”) And although Zandonai’s music seems to fit with the music that Puccini would have written in 1914, it never soars the way that Puccini’s can. The highlight of the opera, or at least this performance of the opera, was Act 4 Scene 1, in the prison. In the intermission interview after Act 2, in which we had seen a lot of Giovanni but not much of Malatestino (who had little to do besides be carried in after having been struck and bloodied by a rock thrown at his eye), Robert Brubaker cautioned the HD audience, “You think he’s bad? [Pointing to Mark Delavan, Giovanni] I’m the really bad one.” And that’s what we saw in Act 4 Scene 1, one of the most evil characters I’ve ever seen on stage, comparable to Lado Ataneli’s Scarpia of San Francisco Opera’s Tosca of 2009. And Mark Delavan was a close second in the “evil” department, and sang the best of any of the principals. A beta—it’s worth seeing again for the sets and the evil characters and the fact that it’s not likely to be produced again any time soon.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Rigoletto, Metropolitan Opera HD Live (encore), March 6 2013
Rigoletto was the beneficiary, or the victim, take your pick, of yet another “updated” production. The basic idea was, how do we reflect the sin and violence of the court of the Duke of Mantua in more modern times? The choice was, Las Vegas of 1960, with the Mafia and the Rat Pack.
Act 1 opened in a casino, complete with roulette wheel and craps table and plenty of garish neon designs on the back wall depicting martinis, poker hands, dice, women, etc. On both left and right of the stage were elevator doors, and tall cylinders above them with lights that would turn on and off to indicate the position of the elevator in the high-rise. The Duke sang “Questa o quella” wearing a white dinner jacket and holding a microphone to his mouth, while eight chorus girls cavorted about him. Countess Ceprano was dolled up to look for all the world like Marilyn Monroe. Monterone was an Arab sheik. Rigoletto’s exchange with Sparafucile took place at a small bar on the right side of the casino, after hours, with no one else around except the bartender. The supertitles had been updated to go along with the production, so the Duke told Countess Ceprano “You send me to the moon,” and Sparafucile assured Rigoletto that he was “a guy who can get rid of a big problem for a small fee.” The transition to Rigoletto’s home was accomplished by dropping a panel composed of 2-foot circles in a square grid between the front of the stage and the casino proper; when Rigoletto came back from his errand and “helped” with the abduction of the “Countess Ceprano,” he was sent up (blindfolded) in the elevator on the right while the courtiers actually abducted his daughter using the elevator on the left.
Act 2 was set in the Duke’s apartment on an upper floor of the casino; a few steps led up to a wide platform and several pieces of 1960-style furniture, with squared-off arms and backs; behind was just a green curtain. Instead of being led off to his execution, Monterone/the sheik was offed right there with a bullet to the head.
Act 3 was the most successful. Sparafucile ran a seedy nightclub at the edge of town. The nightclub was framed with just enough horizontals and verticals to give the impression of a building, but all of the inside was easily visible, including the pole and pole dancer. Along the back wall were a large number of neon lights, vertical lines leaning slightly to the right. When the orchestra played “lightning” the neon lights flashed along with the music, from left to right. Simplistic perhaps, but very effective. Rather than throwing the body in the river, Sparafucile deposited the body bag in the trunk of a 1960 Cadillac that bore the personalized license plate SPARFUC, the idea being that he would drive the body to the river.
Our cast:
Duke of Mantua: Piotr Beczala
Rigoletto, his court jester: Željko Lucic
Gilda, Rigoletto’s daughter: Diana Damrau
Sparafucile, assassin for hire: Štefan Kocán
Maddalena, Sparafucile’s sister: Oksana Volkova
Conductor: Michele Mariotti
Production: Michael Mayer
Set Designer: Christine Jones
Pride of place must go to Željko Lucic’s total involvement in the role of Rigoletto; he’s on his way to owning that role. Although Štefan Kocán may not have been the most sonorous Sparafucile I’ve ever heard, his final low note in Act 1 as he tells Rigoletto his name was the longest-held I’ve ever heard—yes, a show-off, but worth showing off. Piotr Beczala’s “Questa o quella” was wonderful; of course the microphone was a fake. Even with a lot of fine singing, the production concept reached further than it could grasp, and was more jarring and twisted than effective. Barely a beta.
Act 1 opened in a casino, complete with roulette wheel and craps table and plenty of garish neon designs on the back wall depicting martinis, poker hands, dice, women, etc. On both left and right of the stage were elevator doors, and tall cylinders above them with lights that would turn on and off to indicate the position of the elevator in the high-rise. The Duke sang “Questa o quella” wearing a white dinner jacket and holding a microphone to his mouth, while eight chorus girls cavorted about him. Countess Ceprano was dolled up to look for all the world like Marilyn Monroe. Monterone was an Arab sheik. Rigoletto’s exchange with Sparafucile took place at a small bar on the right side of the casino, after hours, with no one else around except the bartender. The supertitles had been updated to go along with the production, so the Duke told Countess Ceprano “You send me to the moon,” and Sparafucile assured Rigoletto that he was “a guy who can get rid of a big problem for a small fee.” The transition to Rigoletto’s home was accomplished by dropping a panel composed of 2-foot circles in a square grid between the front of the stage and the casino proper; when Rigoletto came back from his errand and “helped” with the abduction of the “Countess Ceprano,” he was sent up (blindfolded) in the elevator on the right while the courtiers actually abducted his daughter using the elevator on the left.
Act 2 was set in the Duke’s apartment on an upper floor of the casino; a few steps led up to a wide platform and several pieces of 1960-style furniture, with squared-off arms and backs; behind was just a green curtain. Instead of being led off to his execution, Monterone/the sheik was offed right there with a bullet to the head.
Act 3 was the most successful. Sparafucile ran a seedy nightclub at the edge of town. The nightclub was framed with just enough horizontals and verticals to give the impression of a building, but all of the inside was easily visible, including the pole and pole dancer. Along the back wall were a large number of neon lights, vertical lines leaning slightly to the right. When the orchestra played “lightning” the neon lights flashed along with the music, from left to right. Simplistic perhaps, but very effective. Rather than throwing the body in the river, Sparafucile deposited the body bag in the trunk of a 1960 Cadillac that bore the personalized license plate SPARFUC, the idea being that he would drive the body to the river.
Our cast:
Duke of Mantua: Piotr Beczala
Rigoletto, his court jester: Željko Lucic
Gilda, Rigoletto’s daughter: Diana Damrau
Sparafucile, assassin for hire: Štefan Kocán
Maddalena, Sparafucile’s sister: Oksana Volkova
Conductor: Michele Mariotti
Production: Michael Mayer
Set Designer: Christine Jones
Pride of place must go to Željko Lucic’s total involvement in the role of Rigoletto; he’s on his way to owning that role. Although Štefan Kocán may not have been the most sonorous Sparafucile I’ve ever heard, his final low note in Act 1 as he tells Rigoletto his name was the longest-held I’ve ever heard—yes, a show-off, but worth showing off. Piotr Beczala’s “Questa o quella” was wonderful; of course the microphone was a fake. Even with a lot of fine singing, the production concept reached further than it could grasp, and was more jarring and twisted than effective. Barely a beta.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Parsifal, Metropolitan Opera HD Live, March 2 2013
There were advance warnings about this production of Wagner’s final opera, Parsifal. Word was, blood everywhere, the idea being that since the plot is about Amfortas’s unhealing wound (among other things), the action should take place within the wound. Strange, not necessarily effective, and true for only one act of the three.
The first act took place on a raked surface of dried, cracked mud, marked only by a channel a few inches wide running down the center of the stage and taking a turn toward the left as it neared the front of the stage. The channel started off dry, then later it ran with clear water, and even later it ran with blood. The entire rear wall was a surface for projections: clouds, roiling stormy clouds, astronomical objects (featureless Uranus?), barren deserts, and nebulous abstractions. More interesting was what the director had the members of the (all-male) chorus do. When the curtain rose, we saw about four rows of men extending from one side of the stage to the other, dressed in suits and ties, sitting on chairs. Parsifal, in dark blue pajamas, was in the center, with a gentle spotlight on his face. As the music proceeded, one man after another stood up, in seemingly random order. When all had stood up, they proceeded to discard their ties, their coats, and their shoes and socks, remaining dressed in dark wool slacks and white long-sleeved shirts. They then reformed (taking their chairs with them) in a double (concentric) circle, all bowed low toward the center of the circle. Eventually Amfortas was revealed as the man at the 12:00 position of the inner circle. From time to time they made various random gestures whose significance I could not determine.
The second act was the bloody act. As the intermission interview described, the blood was made from 1200 gallons of water mixed with glycerine and food coloring. For the comfort of the flower maidens, who had to perform while standing ankle-deep in blood, the blood was heated to 105°. The stage manager told us that shaving cream worked well for removing the blood from the singers’s skin afterwards. The flower maidens were dressed in pure white, formless dresses with spaghetti straps, and each held a simple spear, a rod that tapered to a point; there were no distinct spearheads. In back of the pool of blood was a rock face, cleft in the middle from bottom to top, through which various cloudy and other projections could be seen.
For the third act we were back on the cracked-mud surface, but this time a number of graves had been dug in it. Some were open holes in the ground, with mounds of earth piled behind; others had clearly been dug out and filled in. The bandage-wrapped body of Titurel was placed in one of the open graves. Again, various projections played on the rear wall.
Our cast:
Parsifal: Jonas Kaufmann
Gurnemanz: Rene Pape
Amfortas: Peter Mattei
Klingsor: Evgeny Nikitin
Kundry: Katarina Dalayman
Conductor: Daniele Gatti
Director: Francois Girard
Rene Pape was outstanding as Gurnemanz; I had not realized how big that role is, and he handled it with assurance. Peter Mattei made a fine Amfortas, clearly portraying his severe, unending pain, and singing well despite the pain. Jonas Kaufmann’s Parsifal seemed detached from the goings-on, befitting the innocent fool who sees but does not understand. Evgeny Nikitin was properly menacing as Klingsor. The prelude was ethereal, but ultimately the opera suffers from lots and lots of music and not very much action. I know it’s a masterwork; some day perhaps I will dig in and study it closely and come away with a much enhanced appreciation, but for today it falls short of being a beta.
:
The first act took place on a raked surface of dried, cracked mud, marked only by a channel a few inches wide running down the center of the stage and taking a turn toward the left as it neared the front of the stage. The channel started off dry, then later it ran with clear water, and even later it ran with blood. The entire rear wall was a surface for projections: clouds, roiling stormy clouds, astronomical objects (featureless Uranus?), barren deserts, and nebulous abstractions. More interesting was what the director had the members of the (all-male) chorus do. When the curtain rose, we saw about four rows of men extending from one side of the stage to the other, dressed in suits and ties, sitting on chairs. Parsifal, in dark blue pajamas, was in the center, with a gentle spotlight on his face. As the music proceeded, one man after another stood up, in seemingly random order. When all had stood up, they proceeded to discard their ties, their coats, and their shoes and socks, remaining dressed in dark wool slacks and white long-sleeved shirts. They then reformed (taking their chairs with them) in a double (concentric) circle, all bowed low toward the center of the circle. Eventually Amfortas was revealed as the man at the 12:00 position of the inner circle. From time to time they made various random gestures whose significance I could not determine.
The second act was the bloody act. As the intermission interview described, the blood was made from 1200 gallons of water mixed with glycerine and food coloring. For the comfort of the flower maidens, who had to perform while standing ankle-deep in blood, the blood was heated to 105°. The stage manager told us that shaving cream worked well for removing the blood from the singers’s skin afterwards. The flower maidens were dressed in pure white, formless dresses with spaghetti straps, and each held a simple spear, a rod that tapered to a point; there were no distinct spearheads. In back of the pool of blood was a rock face, cleft in the middle from bottom to top, through which various cloudy and other projections could be seen.
For the third act we were back on the cracked-mud surface, but this time a number of graves had been dug in it. Some were open holes in the ground, with mounds of earth piled behind; others had clearly been dug out and filled in. The bandage-wrapped body of Titurel was placed in one of the open graves. Again, various projections played on the rear wall.
Our cast:
Parsifal: Jonas Kaufmann
Gurnemanz: Rene Pape
Amfortas: Peter Mattei
Klingsor: Evgeny Nikitin
Kundry: Katarina Dalayman
Conductor: Daniele Gatti
Director: Francois Girard
Rene Pape was outstanding as Gurnemanz; I had not realized how big that role is, and he handled it with assurance. Peter Mattei made a fine Amfortas, clearly portraying his severe, unending pain, and singing well despite the pain. Jonas Kaufmann’s Parsifal seemed detached from the goings-on, befitting the innocent fool who sees but does not understand. Evgeny Nikitin was properly menacing as Klingsor. The prelude was ethereal, but ultimately the opera suffers from lots and lots of music and not very much action. I know it’s a masterwork; some day perhaps I will dig in and study it closely and come away with a much enhanced appreciation, but for today it falls short of being a beta.
:
Il Trovatore, Opera San Jose, Feb. 24 2013
A third Il Trovatore? Yes ... we had seen the opening night cast, and the opening night cast with two substitutions from the “other” cast, but we needed to see the complete other cast, ideally with no substitutions. And that's what we got:
Manrico, the troubador: James Callon
Leonora, with whom he is in love: Melody King
Count di Luna, mortal foe of Manrico: Evan Brummel
Azucena, the baby-burner: Rebecca Krouner
Ferrando, the captain of the guard: Matthew Anchel
Conductor: David Rohrbaugh
Director: Brad Dalton
James Callon and Evan Brummel sounded at least as good as I’ve ever heard them, but the star of the show was Rebecca Krouner, whose portrayal of Azucena seethed with the intensity of the gypsy’s total dedication to avenge the death of her mother at the hands of the Count di Luna’s father. Definitely a beta.
Manrico, the troubador: James Callon
Leonora, with whom he is in love: Melody King
Count di Luna, mortal foe of Manrico: Evan Brummel
Azucena, the baby-burner: Rebecca Krouner
Ferrando, the captain of the guard: Matthew Anchel
Conductor: David Rohrbaugh
Director: Brad Dalton
James Callon and Evan Brummel sounded at least as good as I’ve ever heard them, but the star of the show was Rebecca Krouner, whose portrayal of Azucena seethed with the intensity of the gypsy’s total dedication to avenge the death of her mother at the hands of the Count di Luna’s father. Definitely a beta.
ll Trovatore, Opera San Jose, Feb. 22 2013
Since both Silas Elash and Nicole Birkland had been indisposed on the evening of our first Il Trovatore, on Feb. 14, we decided to take a chance that both were completely recovered and bought tickets for the final performance of the opening night cast. Luck was with us; the opening night cast performed, with no substitutions.
Manrico, the troubador: Alexander Boyer
Leonora, with whom he is in love: Cecelia Violetta Lopez
Count di Luna, mortal foe of Manrico: Zachary Altman
Azucena, the baby-burner: Nicole Birkland
Ferrando, the captain of the guard: Silas Elash
Conductor: David Rohrbaugh
Director: Brad Dalton
It is such a treat to hear Silas Elash sing! Even though he got off to a bit of a rocky start, his voice of authority soon filled the California Theatre with wonderful sound. Nicole Birkland handled the role of Azucena well, though it wasn’t the knock-your-socks-off kind of performance implied by the review of the opening night. That accolade fell to Cecelia Violetta Lopez, who was in her element that night, unleashing a wonderful Leonora. I’ll be looking forward to hearing more of her. Definitely a beta.
And we will get to hear more of Silas Elash, too. We have it on good authority that even though he won’t be a “resident artist” next year, he will continue to sing for the company as a guest artist. Hooray!
Il Trovatore, Opera San Jose, Feb. 14 2013
It was lots of fun preparing for Il Trovatore—there is so much wonderful music in this opera! Granted, some of it doesn’t quite fit; the music for the Soldier’s Chorus at the beginning of Act 3 sounds as though the soldiers ought to be doing the vaudeville trick of swinging one leg in front of the other. But as Ernest Newman wrote, Verdi’s mistakes are the mistakes of a genius. Kip Cranna of San Francisco Opera describes it as a “double-A” opera, one that is guaranteed to be a great success at the box office. (The other double-A Verdi operas are Rigoletto, La Traviata, and Aida. Beyond that, make up your own list. You can start with “ABC”—Aida, Boheme, Carmen.)
The set was simple but effective, though architecturally unsound. Downstage, massive square stone-and-mortar pillars on the far left and far right formed the posts of a post-and-lintel construction; the lintel was also of stone and mortar. Given the width of the California Theatre stage, such a construction would not survive long in real life. But that’s just a quibble for the engineers in the audience. This post-and-lintel design was repeated upstage, and a third identical structure was positioned mid-stage. There was also a stone-and-mortar construction of steps, rising gently to a height of about 5 feet over the course of 20 or 25 feet; stagehands pushed these steps around to various positions for the various scenes. In the back, we saw a silhouette of a mountain range. In back of the mountain range, there was either a gigantic full moon (displayed whenever the Count di Luna (get it?) was in the scene) or reddish clouds, evoking the burning of Azucena’s mother at the stake. For the scenes that took place inside, such as the interior of the Castellor fortress or the prison cell in Aliafera castle, the back of the stage was blacked out.
Our cast:
Manrico, the troubador: Alexander Boyer
Leonora, with whom he is in love: Cecelia Violetta Lopez
Count di Luna, mortal foe of Manrico: Zachary Altman
Azucena, the baby-burner: Nicole Birkland Rebecca Krouner
Ferrando, the captain of the guard: Silas Elash Matthew Anchel
Conductor: David Rohrbaugh
Director: Brad Dalton
We were disappointed to find an insert in the program that announced that Silas Elash would not be singing Ferrando, but that the part would be taken by the Ferrando from the “other” cast. Then, at 8:00, general manager Larry Hancock come on stage to announce that Nicole Birkland would be replaced by the Azucena from the “other” cast. An audible sigh went up from the audience—Nicole had received a rave review in the San Jose Mercury-News for her portrayal of Azucena. But such a sigh was undeserved, as Rebecca Krouner delivered a winning, very physical performance of her own. Matthew Anchel, substituting for Silas Elash, sang well enough, but he’s not Silas. The chorus and orchestra distinguished themselves. Overall, maybe a beta.
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