Met's Marvelous Pelléas Prima

As heard over Sirius last night (and early this morning), Simon Rattle made a splash in a truly sensational (and long overdue) debut at the Metropolitan Opera last night with a fascinating and generally ravishing performance of Debussy‘s generally despised “Pelléas et Mélisande” (apparently to a mostly sold out house). The orchestra responded positively to him and was in breathtaking mode from start to finish, each scene imbued with the character of the piece. A different reading than I’m used to from Levine with this score, and I rather liked it.

While I generally prefer a tenor today as Pelléas, Stéphane Degout is a wonderful baritone Pelléas and his voice contrasted nicely with a noticeable weight difference between him and Finley’s beautifully brooding Golaud.

I had to laugh after Act I when someone began to applaud and was promptly “shushed” by the audience! Since when is it bad manners to clap at the end of an act? (Yes, I know, Parsifal, Wozzeck have “those” moments, but entirely different situation.)

Like all good Geneviève’s, Felicity Palmer made me wish Debussy had given her a bit more music.

I was pleasantly surprised to hear Willard White sounding still so robust (particularly for an old King!). Willard White's utterances in Act IV were mind blowing! His final line in scene ii Si j'étais Dieu, j'aurais pitié du cœur des hommes moved me to tears (as it should). Followed by the postlude leading into the next scene - with that delicate melody in the winds before the strings come in, Rattle and the band brought absolute perfection. Along with the final intermezzo in Wozzeck it's almost too much emotion - overwhelming is an understatement. Followed by Yniold's scene about the sheep meant as much to me as everything else in this sad tale. Debussy as genius. (no little credit to Maeterlinck.). Why is this amazing child’s name still not on the Met’s website?

I loved Kožená's Mélisande - a very different approach than I’m used to in this role and a welcome challenge. There were so many details and changes in sound that this already complex creature of mystery, seemed to have even more dimensions - some a bit disturbing (but fascinating) and some rather stunning, such as the little throaty "catch" in Kožená's voice to Golaud, “avec Pelléas? Mais Pelléas ne voudra pas.”


Degout was wonderful all night, but in Act IV scene ii (my favorite scene of the entire opera) he poured on emotion that had almost been hidden all night. Good God, he was amazing. And Kožená's first "Pelléas" here was so different than I've heard before. One word - his name, instead of an announcement there was this "doom" already present in her sound. In one word. Masterful.

And the heat was on in that scene, at one point, (which must have been worked out w/Rattle) Pelléas' interrupts Mélisande ("non") in a manner I can't recall hearing sound so spontaneously. Details. Details I could hardly imagine! Weirder still, was as Kožená sang this scene I found myself for the first time EVER hearing this opera, thinking of Carmen . Something in the growly, defiant voice of Mélisande that threw me. I liked this different, approach to this mysterious heroine.

Degout's sound here, too, was darker - more covered than I typically want, but at "Et maintenant je t'ai trouvee ... je 1'ai trouvee!" (my ultimate test for any Pelléas) his medium sized voice exploded with an intensity that was glorious. (He cracked slightly a minute later on the second (and high) "Vien" following it, but understandably.) K's Mélisande felt almost too "cool" here - not innocent as most Mélisandes (maybe why I thought of Carmen?) and only in danger, seemed momentarily freed, finally matching Pelléas' now fully naked passion. Stunning fusion of great music and drama.

Pelléas' murder was absolutely horrifying - with Degout's making the outbursts sound almost as being made on the spot. Remarkable. As he died it sounded as though he shouted, "Golaud!" I don't recall this in this staging before (and, in fact, have never noticed a Pelléas yelling out like that).

Rattle's way with the prelude to Act V was ravishing.

As good as he was earlier, White's Arkel sounded like a balm in the final act - a more robust, virile King than usual. The contrast against, Mélisande's weakened state (or resolve?) was immense. Rattle slowed down the music for Golaud's entrance into the scene, so each utterance of "Mélisande" bore with it this enormous feeling of great heaviness to the sound - the effect, powerful.

Finley's big final scene utterly destroyed me. Golaud's range of emotion from penitent to (again) jealous rage, then confusion that when weighed against the sudden change in the now gentle Mélisande's responses (with Kožená now finding a rare, delicate tenderness) could not have been more intensely dramatic. I can only imagine what the effect felt like in the house. Here, Golaud's passion matched Pelléas', pound-for-pound. No, they may not have been full brothers, but they shared something major (and not just Mélisande!) As he finished the phrase, "Je vais mourir ici comme un aveugle" Finley added a sob to the final syllable that cut me to the core. Chilling.

Arkel's final monologue was infinitely touching, with White striking a noble balance between kingly duties and emotional collapse. I liked the Rattle's approach to the final pages; a bit more fractured yet somehow beautifully held together with a slight ritard in the tempo. Wistful, I'd call it.

Margaret Juntwait conducted a wonderful interview with Carol Vanness who came off as pure class. I did crack up at Margaret asking how Carol got along with that famous Nozze cast of von Stade and Battle! LOL! Vanness dodged it nicely, but it would've been a bit of fun to hear her “go off” on the topic! I was touched when she mentioned how she now occupies Giorgio Tozzi’s former office and how she thinks of him every time she enters. Very cool.

Given the lateness (post midnight) it was interesting to notice a sort of "rushed" curtain, but to a wildly enthusiastic house. A most remarkable performance.

Dr. Atomic: Trying to Understand Art in the Atomic Age

In my childlike and endless fascination of nearly all things, I TRY always to understand as many different perspectives as there are people to produce them. (And yes, the result usually leaves me more confused than it does anything else). That fascination extends especially to new, little known and/or forgotten works and very likely the culprit of my desires to attend, say Salieri’s Falstaff, or Vivaldi’s L'incoronazione di Dario over a performance of Puccini’s La Boheme, regardless of WHO might be in the cast of either. For me, it tends more to be about the work than the workers (or, as friends tire of hearing me say: more about the opera than the singer).

By varying degrees of difference, few of us are actually alike, no matter how much we may share or how similarly we may see our lives, our plights, or affectations. When I first began listening to opera as a child, I thought of how alone I was in this obsession. As I grew older and began studying music, I thought, “how wonderful” to be able to share this obsession with so many like-minded music lovers.” As I grow older still, I realize, outside of the music itself, how precious little I often have in common with many other opera, symphony, and recital attendees. I understand that we all come to music, to the opera especially, because of our own reasons and these may or may not be shared by others – either many or few.

I was overwhelmed the first time I heard Doctor Atomic several years ago. As soon as a performance became available on pirate DVD, I snatched it up, and played it. And played it. I grew as familiar as I could with the libretto, Adams’ settings of it, the orchestral music and electronic sounds – coming to believe it to be one of this composer’s greatest works. Adams is a composer whose work I liked immediately: everything I heard of early on – Shaker Loops, Grand Pianola Music, etc., got me me thinking, made me smile. None of it, however, left me remotely prepared for the piece which would grab me as almost no other late 20th century work had previously done: the massively constructed “Harmonielehre” (1984) in a recording led by the composer himself. The first time I heard those opening chords I, literally, fell out of my chair and onto my knees. I remember the moment as though it happened an hour ago.

Harmonielehre – this work, alone, made me reevaluate my already positive assessments of contemporary music - especially Adams’, as well as the role it was taking and would play in my life. It soon seemed everything composed was simply the next thing in a logical, natural progression – in his expression, the flow of his creativity - I was finding a composer who seemed to be writing the soundtrack to my own life. Frightening. Beautiful.

I understand and even appreciate how many do not care for Adams’ music. But, as there tends to be whenever personalities are involved (i.e., “always”) there seems also to be some malevolent feelings directed against the composer himself, these bizarrely fixed and fueled fictional agendas perpetuated against him for . . . reasons I never fully comprehend. Sometimes the backlash against his music seems to stem from those who find him “an intellectual” – an almost damnable offense in a 21st century America obsessed with redneck and low-folk inspired humor and sensibilities and one prejudice needing to make a long-overdue retreat.

Still, if one is able to listen to interviews with or read any of many excellent articles on the man one would likely discover a more truthful representation of WHO John Adams is. It is therefore when I see charges like “self-indulgent” – “narcissistic” – “too academic” I can tend to get a bit testy. While this is true generally, it is particularly so with works which speak to me emotionally and which hit, then linger with me my noting the residual impact they leave on my life. We are all well aware of the strength of negative reviews and opinions – and how more fun they are to read than positive ones - with its instant “caught with your pants down” or ‘”gotcha!” quality that provides one with a fleeting instant of superiority to (though rarely sympathy for) the person we're examining under the microscope.

Few of us have the inclination, time, or even desire to understand all of what goes into a composition of ANY sort: painting, opera or a meal of great complexity, seeing only the end result which, of course, is all we’re meant to (if the painter, composer or chef is doing his job). Still, this does not prevent us from attempting to fragment the thing, to – even with incomplete, or worse, incorrect information – try to make more of it than it is – analyzing it using our own spec sheets as to what should have happened when, what disaster could have been averted, improved upon, etc., etc.

Entering as yet another variable into the complexity of the equation is also the eternal question of whether a composer is writing for "us" or is writing for himself. (There is no one correct answer to this . . . and there won’t be a quiz.)

With all of this as preamble, how then do we fairly assess and critique Mr. Adams’ opus three years now before the public? Critics and audiences alike have wrestled with not only the difficult theme of his Manhattan Project project, but the very manner by which it was constructed: with elements of electronic etude, symphonic sturm und drang, ancient and modern philosophies, declassified government documents, dance, ballet, and a libretto about as far away from “standard issue dramaturgy” as Philip Glass’s Bhagavad Gita-inspired “Satyagraha.”
(Adams and Sellars also draw from the Indian epic for “Dr. Atomic”). Poetry – especially in the guise of “sonnets” (the word itself sounding affected to many audiences, particularly American ones), is not what one expects in plays, lyrics, songs – and barely in arias.

We tend to like our opera clear cut and natural yet what could possibly be “less natural” then the very idea of setting speechified text to music in the first place? And yet, by including these ancient texts and sonnets Adams and Sellars have drawn a line – a link between past and future – a distinct connect of language and imagery at once both familiar and foreign. It may be intellectual in its construct, and even its execution, but NOT in its result which is immediate and heartfelt. That is, to me, the essence of art – to take what is not and construct from it an “is.” (If ANYONE is still following me here, bless you!)

I don’t think Adams ever wants his work to be easy on his audience. He is ever probing, inquisitive, suggestive, menacing, thoughtful, arbitrary and indirect. His operas lay open every possibility for exploration of their dramas – usually with an objectivity not easily found in most of the cut-and-dry scenarios most of us tend like in our opera. In almost all of Adams’ work, every character emerges both as hero and monster - we see them completely. Understandably for some such ambiguity of character is disturbing in that they find themselves unable to relate to the characters they’re trying to understand, to feel emotions for. Who is the villain? Who, the hero? All of us.

I’ve heard many confused statements following opening night, people wondering whether Oppenheim and Co. are being portrayed as heroes or villains; whether Adams' opera is glorifying the bomb; even if the subject matter is appropriate for a musical/dramatic treatment in purely “operatic” terms. These questions perplex me for if the answer to any of them is “yes” – or “no” – then we’ve essentially limited ourselves, placed boundaries and cut offs as to what is or isn’t - can or cannot be "art." Adams’ works – not just his operas – constantly and gloriously smash through these boundaries, extending the perimeters of what was and what can be. This is not to say he is alone in this endeavor, but there is no denying the man is at the forefront of it as far as American music is concerned.

The man has devoted his life to studying, discovering and understanding both himself, his species and the world we inhabit. I don’t know how well he’s succeeded or believes he has but, during the process, Adams’ work has shined a light on the best and worst of us offering up a reflection of all which makes us distinctly human and imperfect; creatures capable of creating and destroying, of being our own gods and monsters.

And so, with all of this filling and spilling from my head, I again listened to Doctor Atomic, wrapping myself up in the warm and tight complexities of its magnificent score, feeling it become more and more familiar – and realize I am no closer to understanding or figuring what its about any more than I was several years ago. This is the ultimate beauty and triumph of art – not my ability to grow and understand it, but by how it continually defeats, confuses and evades me no matter how strong my attempt to grasp it is. Little wonder then that it is Donne’s sonnet that has affected me most of all - even more than the detonation of the bomb itself. In the restlessness and confusion of Donne’s words, we see and feel the link Adams creates from it, connecting a modern score to a 400 year old text and in so doing, shows us that no less is our desire for sublation and knowledge, no greater is our understanding, and no less is our urgency - our need to understand.

“Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly' I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, 'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you' enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.”

Amen.