Opera Maine: A Roméo to Remember

This past year I've been spending a lot of time with Romeo and Juliet - and Roméo et Juliette. and Romeo e Giulietta. Of all of the treatments of this tale, including Shakespeare's - my favorite is, easily, Gounod's five act opera.  I was thrilled to be able to attend Opera Maine's knockout of a production. 

Artistic Director, Dona D. Vaughn found a combination of old and new which provided an original, refreshing and eye-opening spin on tradition and just how potent a good story well told can be. The set was a simple affair – a mostly bare stage with a tall central wooden tower flanked by a pair of wide steps (and later two more structures that would attach to the tower). Scenic changes were accomplished by projections onto the rear stage wall that changed not only from scene-to-scene, but during them. At the start an enormous stained-glass wall quickly established the tone of the severity and tragedy pf the tale, before giving way to the elegance and light of the party scene.

Projections are, of course, not new in theatre, and frequently the use of brilliant photography makes them feel more cinematic - more real world. Such was not the case here. The projections were of paintings, rustic, earthy tones and buildings, ballroom interiors - keeping us out of the realm of reality, and pulling us into a sense of being in another time and place. It felt like a nod to opera's glorious past when heavily detailed painted flats sprang to life before our eyes – but even better and more so here. These projections also used animation - so when we saw stars, they were actually twinkling in the deep night sky, we’d see turtle doves flying across, as Stephano chased and sang about them, and we were treated to a shooting star sailing through space as the audience reveled along with Roméo's ecstasy following Ah! lève-toi, soleil! There were touches like this all evening long and they were simply glorious.

With a nod towards anime, both visually and in movement, there were details that made the action pop. The costumes - vivid - splendid and rich looking.  And the hair: fascinating hair designs in various blues, greens, auburns and silvers - twists and spikes - including Tybalt's Silver the Hedgehog with all those spikes. Lord Capulet had a stand-up bun going on making him even taller, and Mercutio's Samurai ponytail flew about dangerously like a whip. There was a lot of movement – including a short ballet with dancers doubling Romeo and Juliet at the opera’s start.  All of it felt like we were getting a thousand years of theatrical history playing brilliantly and seamlessly right before our eyes.

Cast from strength throughout this Roméo scored in every aspect of Gounod's lyric drama musically and dramatically - everyone perfectly matched to their role. 

Christopher Job sounded authoritative and appropriately regal, presenting a  sympathetic Count which seemed to bond him closer to his daughter, and rather a nice change from the frequently imperious father we often encounter in this opera

The naturally sympathetic Gertrude was Michelle Blauman, her rich, plummy mezzo capturing the Nurse's love and concern for her charge. 

Maxwell Levy's spikey-haired Tybalt began a bit tentatively in sound, but quickly matched the intensity infused this hothead with - one could initially admire his familial loyalty, then angered at  his instigation of the tragedy, and Levy, quick with sword and temper, played this off with a beautiful cruelty. 

Ricardo Lugo's Frère Laurent and Tyler Putnam's Duke each deeply  resonant felt and sounded exactly as one wants in these smaller, but pivotal roles. Likewise, in the crucial role of Pâris, Daniel Illig was able to make his brief moments memorable, his shock at his intended bride's "death," moving. Gounod was not kind to Benvolio, yet Jared Vigue helped make the moments opening party scene feel exactly right. Similarly, as Gregorio, Micah Schroeder got the ball rolling in his tussle with Stephano that led to the tragedy spinning out of control in one of opera's best street scenes. 

As Stephano, mezzo Winona Martin - as spunky as her electric blue hair, was a delight sailing through ""Depuis hier... Que fais-tu" offering nice trills and that quick High C near the end. A highlight of the night for certain.

When a voice stands out In a cast this strong, you sit up and notice, and that's precisely what happened when our Mercutio - baritone Laureano Quant opened his mouth. He already looked terrific and moved like an athlete, but the beauty of sound, the resonance and acting with the voice made his Queen Mab aria one of those moments where I told myself, "follow this guy's career."  Quant also proved to be an excellent swordsman, though of course that didn't change the story. Definitely someone to watch.

Mercutio's pal, Roméo  had a voice that did the same  (what is it they're feeding those Montagues?) and tenor Kameron Lopreore had my jaw dropping a number of times throughout the night. Physically,  he's big - not of the Alfredo Kraus or Roberto Alagna sized Roméos -more football than tennis player, and the voice matched: big, healthy, resonant with that tenorial "ping" of the old days. At times I wished he'd have brought a touch more nuance in softer passages (when you start loud, you can only get louder) but the voice is of such beauty and youthful sound, you just smile and glad to be in its presence. While excellent throughout, his “Ah! lève-toi, soleil!" literally stopped the show, and then one of my favorite scenes in all opera the ending of the third act as Roméo is banished was simultaneously heartbreaking and thrilling. Another career I'm going to be keeping my eye on. 

Soprano Denis Vélez, looked every inch the perfect Juliette, and dispatched her first arias with aplomb, if a little wildness - but that is not at all inappropriate to this character. Yet, as the evening wore on, I was unprepared for the increase of intensity in her sound, the size of the voice growing to match her Roméo. The shaping of her phrases increasing to a nearly heart-stopping beauty, and the Potion Aria (which remarkably used to be a standard cut for about a century) brought home the tragedy before the final scene. Indeed, this one of the most emotional moments in an opera absolutely filled with them. 

Virgil Bozeman's chorus was one of - and perhaps the best - I've heard in 30 years from this company. Their French sounded just right, they moved - and danced - with a fluidity that matched every other element of this marvelous production.

Keeping it all together was conductor Israel Gursky. Maestro Gursky has a special way with this company, and while we don't get a lot of French opera, everything about his leadership in this oh-so-French score sounded absolutely right and perfect. His attention to phrasing and dynamics propelled without force, but swelling on the grand tragic motifs in a manner that quite frankly took my breath away. We definitely need more French opera from you, Maestro. 

The final scene in the tomb was a departure from what has become more the norm - as the lovers embrace each other in death. Here, Vaughn doubled up the "sad" with Juliette on her funeral slab reaching out to Roméo who was pulling himself across the floor towards her before her delicate hand dropped in death. Maestro Gursky beautifully milked those final bars as Roméo inched his way towards his bride, but likewise - expiring before reaching her. I could hear others around me gasping lightly and yes, my eyes were wet. 

Bravo a tutti to Opera Maine for a spectacular evening of one of the world's great romantic tragedies. 

Pelléas Perfection From Rouen

(NOTE:  This was published in 2021, but correcting a typo forced the current date.)

One night this past February, seized by my endless insomnia, I stumbled onto - and then stayed up all night - watching Éric Ruf's incredible production of Pelléas et Mélisande from the delayed feed from Rouen that day. Since that night, I literally cannot count the number times I've watched since. Easily a dozen. This Rouen production, along with Vienna's current one, is perhaps the best I've ever seen.

First, not that it should matter, but physically, this is just about the most attractive casting  since Richard Stilwell and Frederica von Stade over 40 years ago.  Like Richard and Flicka, these kids are ideally suited to their roles, vocally and dramatically. Additionally, strange as it sounds, there is an almost Shakespearean quality to Ruf's austere unit set, adding yet another level of mysterious drama to an opera that already is filled with it.

Nicolas Courja is among the most complex, conflicted Golauds in memory, matching his more celebrated equal, Simon Keenlyside in the Vienna production. If I were forced to chose between them . . . well, I could not, and so won't.

Golaud is almost always a bit gruff from the get-go, but Courja, youthful and almost crazy handsome, plays the role much younger than we're used to seeing it, which creates an element of reality where, with the brothers closer both physically in age, and in manner, makes Mélisande's love for each entirely believable. Courja's Golaud is gentle, loving and kind to Mélisande. The way he looks at her, touches her - he is the personifcation of love. I cannot recall a Golaud I can say that about, ever, not even Simon's.  All of that loving kindness makes his turn-around all the more remarkable. It's an enormous dramatic payoff as serves to intensify his rage and violence . . . his emotional unhinging becoming all the more believable . . . and terrifying. We see before us a man who has descended into complete madness from rage and jealousy.  Courja's delivery of the text, and his physical actions come from the very soul of Golaud. He is brilliant.

As the title lovers, Adèle Charvet and Huw Montague Rendall quite simply took my breath away. They look and act like teenagers, particularly Rendall who appears to be no more than 18 at times, and moves both athletically and gracefully like a physically fit kid. Not often can we say that about any opera singer.  The same holds true for Ms. Charvet.  Of course, none of this "they look great" business would matter if they could not sing these roles, but, blessedly, this is not even remotely the case. Vocally, they're close to perfection, with Rendall probably taking a slight edge, and top honors for the best singing in an evening that is absolutely filled with great singing.

Jean Teitgen and Lucile Richardot as Arkel and Genevieve, albeit with far less to sing, were the equal of the three central characters. Teitgen in particular makes the most of his scenes, and his most famous line, Si j'étais Dieu, j'aurais pitié du coeur des hommes" (If I were God, I would have pity on the hearts on men) with an old man's broken hearted weariness. The sentiment and its delivery are devastating. I could feel his words in my soul.

The staging on this unusual unit set is never shy of incredible.  Rich in visual symbolism - with its enormous, stage covering fishing net, the grotto, the pond/stream with its enormous stones surrounding it, which the lovers move across . . . all of it is tremendous to behold.

The murder of Pelléas, always one of the most chilling in opera, is, in its way, as horrifying as Siegfried's, and the shock and terror of this opera I've known and loved over half a century now still causes me to let out a gasp in any production (well, most of them).  But here? Wow.  No matter how many times I've watched it now, I cannot stop my hand from flying upward, instinctively covering my mouth.

Reinforcing all of this is the Rouen house orchestra, under the extraordinary Pierre Dumoussaud.  Together, they give a reading of Debussy's score that matches the best of any I've heard from an opera house orchestra, and better - by far - than most. Dumoussaud imbues every note - every phrase of Debussy's masterpiece with understated conviction that always serves the drama perfectly. His players respond in kind throughout with gauzy, dreamy, powerful, textures that transport one directly to the heart of this story. This extends to the interludes which, each time, serve perfectly in heightening the sense of drama and tragedy.

This Pelléas should not be missed by anyone who loves the opera. For those who think you don't like it, if you can handle French subtitles, this may be the one production that could well change your mind.

The Last Day of a Condemned Man: Hugo's Novel Becomes an Opera

 As often happens a discussion in another group caused me to think about a new opera I was blown away by a few years ago, but the absence of any subsequent performances of has, I'm embarrassed to admit, allowed me to forget it.  I'm wicked grateful for that discussion to let me revisit the work.  What is it, you ask (okay, probably nobody asked)?  The Alagna Brothers treatment of Victor Hugo's 1829 anti-death penalty novel Le Dernier Jour D'un Condamne - The Last Day of a Condemned Man.  The intense, dramatic libretto was written by all three of the Alagna boys - Roberto, David, and Frédérico - while the powerful, haunting, and frequently beautiful score, is by David.  

The 2014 production for Avignon, was filmed and released on DVD by Deutsche Grammophon but only in Europe and not the U.S. I have never (and will never) understand this idiotic practice. (and don't - you-know-who - come at me with your "reasons" . . . they're still idiotic).  

Fortunately, that tremendous Avignon production is available for view on YouTube - albeit sans any English subtitles. That should not hinder anyone from viewing this (but it of course will).  I've only read the novel in English translation, but even if you only read the synopsis and even if, like me, your French is terrible, this opera packs an emotional punch, going straight to the gut - but also the brain.  

While the libretto changes Hugo's story to reflect both the 18th AND 21st centuries, it is keeping in line with the author's own words of how he wanted his story to be relevant and speaking out against the death penalty and a reform of punishment in his time and for future generations.  This is achieved by taking the unnamed protagonist who in the novel is merely The Condemned Man  in 1829,and creating a counterpart - The Condemned Woman - in 2014.  For those fearful of this kind of adaptation, there is neither time travel nor any interaction between the Man and the Woman - except symbolically and horrifically in the final scene - which I will not reveal here.  

Nadine Duffaut's direction is brutal, meaningful and unfussy in the bleak but brilliant set by Emmanuelle Favre.  Favre has divided the stage in two on a turntable which brings us into both the 1829 prison cell, and the 2014 prison cell which are seen both separately and together, The juxtaposition or the scenes shows us how little has changed over the centuries.  

Roberto's counterpart in this performance is the outstanding American soprano Adina Aaron (who I've been lucky to see several times throughout her career) . . . and the two of them, despite never meeting - make a riveting, heartbreaking pair.  

Reviews were, as one would expect, mixed.  Many critics found the work absorbing, powerful, the score passionate, and darkly melodic . . . lush, while others - who I call the "anti-melodists" , predictably, didn't think it sounded 21st century or harsh enough.  Give me a fucking break people. But listen, watch, and judge it for yourself. If you're like me, you'll be cheering along with the house at Avignon.

As The Condemned Man, Alagna is not only in splendid voice, but reveals again why he has been one of the best actors on the lyric stage for the last 30 years. Adina Aaron is a worthy partner and the two of them, at the curtain, each acknowledge the outstanding work of the other.

The two centuries of costumes are by Katia Duflot and the incredible lighting design of Philippe Grosperrin add to the grand and grim nature of this piece.

Balàzs Kocsàr conducts, bringing masterful performances from the rest of the cast, and the Avignon-Provence Opera Choruses and Orchestra. 

DGG did release an excellent audio recording on CD (with notes by the the Alagnas and others) with Michel Plasson leading Alagna, and Indra Thomas, along with the forces of the French National Orchestra.  

Dialogues des Carmélites: Some Thoughts

Listening to the Met's broadcast of Poulenc's Dialogues des Carmélites, last night did what it always does: makes me think . . . and write, too much. I remembered numerous conversations and arguments about the opera, and one in particular.

Roughly twenty years ago I was embroiled in a conversation with a group who made known their very strong feelings about this opera. More simply put:  they hated it.

One wrote that Poulenc's opera is only for "religious nuts," adding "I can see how someone who wasn't religious at all would be totally put off  by this . . .  plus the misogynism and rejection of sexuality put me off too ... there are a lot of things in this opera that you have to overlook just to enjoy the music."

This sentiment was followed by a strong pronouncement that condemned Poulenc as "completely irresponsible" in his selection for his largest work, "particularly doing so after the murder of millions of Jews and others at his doorstep . . . . how dare he trivialize that with his little antique tragedy when the whole world was still reeling, and just beginning to recover and understand what had taken place."

Wow.  I argued how I believed the very removal of the then immediate present (the end of WWII), as well as the timelessness (or, at least, of a time far removed) of the 1789 Carmelites incident, actually spoke far better to the ideas of senseless death, war and the human condition.  Not only that, but it could do so in a far more contemplative and profound manner than any "Anti-Nazi Opera," possibly could.  Further to that is, Poulenc's unique compositional style is immediately recognizable as more prone towards intimate storytelling rather than grand pageantry and war scenes, or their aftermath.

Instead, he presents us with a group of women at another perilous time in human history, joined together ,yes,by religion, but also something much more than that.  The sense of community is unique among cloistered people, and Poulenc delves into that life with details raning from the mundane to the extraordinary.

Early on, Sister Constance speaks of dying in place of another, which we know as "the transference of grace."  This echoes a sentiment that seemed to speak to Poulenc in more ways than one, and the culmination of it, I believe, is reached with the final chop of the guillotine: this sisterhood has, as their Saviour, gone to slaughter, willingly accepting martyrdom.

There are so many ideas Poulenc presents in this opera, and I believe one of the reasons his insistence that it be translated, sung and understood in the vernacular of its audience is his precision in setting the text, the attention to the tale's intimate so that every part of it could be understood, even if we don't agree on what it is we're understanding.

One need not be a Catholic or religious at all to understand that a strong belief of all faiths is that of unity: the many becoming part of the one.  In such communities we take on and share the burden of another.  I also believe It's why we as a species have created Saints. We pray to now divine beings who once were human.  They "know"  better than purely celestial creatures such as God, or the angels, the profound depth of human suffering.

Returning to the Transference of Grace, who knows if my suffering - or even my death  - can in some way have an effect, or possibly even alleviate completely the pain and suffering of another?  I have always held that Madame de Croissy's agonizing death, wracked with terrors of doubt and fear, of the end of all these women believed, was, unknowingly, her gift to the perpetually anxious and terror-stricken Blanche, who, when the time comes, can now accept her death with peace and in the company of her sisters.  Regardless of what "I" personally believe - that's some pretty powerful stuff!

We know Poulenc was an often conflicted soul - not in the "spiritual suffering" way, but like many of us, trying to find some sort of balance between the spiritual and the secular.  A worldly man he was nonetheless, prone towards "bouts" of the spiritual.  Years ago I was moved when learning how, following the tragic death of his close friend, Pierre-Octave Ferroud, Poulenc decided to make a pilgrimage, far out into the countryside where he prayed and meditated at the Chapel of the Black Virgin of Rocamadour.  If I recall, he described the experience on his way home as an epiphany, and penned, almost immediately, his Litanies a la Vierge noir.  It's among, the finest of his smaller choral works, and every bar is filled with a genuine sense of spiritual mystery.

I used to joke that no French composer was capable of truly separating the sacred and profane, but look at the popular operas of Saint Saens; Massenet; Gounod, and there is something there!  But, I believe Poulenc's opera addresses many issues

Universally, and despite the very specificity of its French Revolution setting, it is ultimately a story that could take place at nearly any given time in any part of the world.

I've always held this opera close to my heart, yet also know people who genuinely despise it on many grounds.

Personally, since first hearing it as a boy, and then in my teens experiencing the amazing, John Dexter production it has, despite affected me on myriad levels, not the least of which is spiritually, which is an odd thing coming from a non-believer. In this sense it stands alongside Bach's Matthäus-Passion, and Wagner's Parsifal.  Not bad company to be in.

Pelléas et Mélisande : Golaud's Turn

I have now watched Marco Arturo Marelli's brilliant 2017 Pelléas et Mélisande  produced for Vienna about half a dozen times, and, despite my raves when first seen, each ensuing viewing has become a more powerful experience than the one that preceded it.  

Though the costumes seem to place it in the early 20th century, Marelli has created a sense of a world without time, for the residents of Allemonde.  As has been true for most productions of Debussy's masterpiece of recent vintage, the story here similarly unravels on a unit set.  But, oh, what a set.  

Marelli has trapped his audience, along with Maeterlinck's doomed characters, in the dimly lit, grim, cheerless vaults of the forbidding Allemonde castle where nature seems to be a foreign concept. It has, in fact, become something spoken of . . .  alluded to, but never, ever seen.  Here the walls are impregnable to the outside world, and impenetrable to daylight.  A lagoon occupies the stage floor, and to drive the point home, Marelli has filled it with stagnant water navigated by multi-level precarious walkways.  

The effect works in perfect tandem with Debussy's complex score alternating from its dreamy gauziness, filled with lives of angst and worry, then punctuated with Golaud's unpredictable outbursts of malevolent violence.  It is only the outsider, Melisande who escapes, in what I can only describe as some sort of vision and apotheosis.  The dying or dead heroine of the story, is accompanied by eight graces who lead her spirit away by boat. . .  away into an orange, sunstreamed horizon - the only natural light we glimpse during the tale's duration, and this but for only a minute before being plunged back into the forboding dank world of this doomed castle. 

Water is in fact a constant element throughout Marelli's design, and its symbolism seems born of myriad possibilities, not the least of which include life, death, cleansing, stagnation, and entrappment, but ultimately also, escape.   

While I'm not generally a fan of singling out a non-titled principal character taking the focus of a production, Marelli makes the anchor of this Pelléas et Mélisande, Golaud.  In truth, it isn't a far stretch to say Debussy's opera could easily be titled "Golaud."  The role is here taken by the remarkable Simon Keenlyside, who was, for a good stretch of his career, one of the finest interpreters of Pelléas.  I have no reservations saying this:  even as good as he was, his work in the title role never touched (nor was it required to do so) the depths of despair we witness as the hero's older half brother. 

Marelli bookends the opera's opening and closing moments with twin failed suicide attempts by Golaud, who, as the tale begins, has neither the strength nor will to live.  In the opening scene, he props his rifle under his chin, stopping only when he spies the mysterious Mélisande crying.  Then, in the final scene, racked with remorse, shame and guilt so deep he cannot bare it, he again readies the weapon for his death, saved by his son, who, weeping, pushes the gun away before embracing and kissing his father, who can only look off into the distance, blindly.  Keenlyside is in his element vocally and theatrically, presenting a doomed man in the same league as Wozzeck.  It is perhaps the finest thing I've experienced him in - even if only on video (and I saw his wonderful Pelléas to Lorraine Hunt Lieberson's mesmerizing Mélisande).  Keenlyside makes Golaud's weeping, remorse and moaning sound as if arising from the profound depths of a truly hopeless soul, and I discovered that fighting back my own tears the most futile of exercises.   

Adrian Eröd's light, flexible baritone perfectly suited Pelléas' character.  His was not the youthful looking "boy" we usually see, but rather closer in age to Golaud, which worked well dramatically.  That said, he's physically spry and athletic (though a bit cautious on the dangerous walkways, which is understandable), and his fascination and love for  Mélisande feels more naturally childlike than born of passion. 

 This approach works with Olga Bezsmertna's fascinating, statuesque Mélisande, their love for one another feeling genuinely innocent. The murder of Pelléas becomes less horrific than most productions lately, yet somehow all the more wrenching because of Golaud's profound, almost paralyzing depression.  Here, there is no need for Mélisande to run away to hide, her husband will not be coming after her next and the scene becomes absolutely soul crushing.  

Kudos to the creative team for giving Mélisande a glorious mop of hair that extends to the floor and truly gives her not only a quality of mystery, but also imparts a character out of an ancient tragedy.  This effect is made all the more powerful during what can only be called (at least by me) as Mélisande's Apotheosis or Transfiguration.  

Bernarda Fink is a Geneviève of great motherly warmth, much more present than we usually see.  She is also vulnerable and visibly frightened by what she sees going on in the castle.  Franz-Josef Selig nearly steals the evening as the old blind king, Arkel.  The voluptuousness of his tone, it's warmth is stunning, and adds to a character who, despite having "seen it all" still offers compassion and hope.  

I typically cringe whenever a female soprano is assigned Yniold, but here diminutive coloratura Maria Nazarova makes a more believable - and well sung boy - than just about any "real boy" I can think of in recent memory.  

The highest praise goes to Maestro Altinoglu who has just the right "everything" going on with the Vienna Philharmonic, and dispatches Debussy's score in a reading that is both contemplative and propulsive.  Blessedly, the sound engineers captured all of this with refined precision that allows every instrument, every voice to be heard almost as if for the first time.  In a review immediately after the premiere, one critic described the effect as "a love affair between conductor and orchestra."  I'd agree.

(Note:  Unfortunately, this recording seems not to be any longer available, though I'd wager it can be found through the "usual channels," if not easily so.)

Eva Mei's White Hot Thaïs

I have always loved this opera and have never quite figured out why it isn't given more of a chance to catch on. Leontyne Price, Beverly Sills, and others have taken on this femme fatale, and dusting off its magical score just every once in a while to reveal the treasure it really is.

Pier Luigi Pizzo's production for La Fenice production is absolutely gorgeous with incredible care shown down to the smallest detail, yet always fresh and never fussy. Roses seem to be a central theme in this production and Pizzi gives us have tons of them, a virtual moving wall of roses. Thais (and later, Athanael's) bed is made of huge ropey vines of roses (which transforms during the meditation!).

Mei is a moving Thais and while the voice lacks some softness or plush qualities, her piano and sustained high register singing is pure and lovely. She's an affecting actress and her transformation from courtesan to saint is not only believable but poignant, Mei actually seems to radiate as the Saint. The Mirror Aria is well sung, but it is actually her duets with Pertusi, especially the opening and closing ones of Act III where Mei shines. Her death scene is absolutely beautiful, combining the dual natures - spirituality and sensuality - of Massenet's opera brilliantly and (especially to .



Those who have nudity issues be forewarned a lot of flesh is on display here, the entire female corps de ballet is topless, save for necklace chains, and Thais has a topless doppleganger who gives a radiant performance of the Meditation (Though Mei's costume leaves little to the imagination).

Everybody has great legs here, not just Thais and the girls, but Athanaël, and Nicias too! William Joyner's bright tenor rings nicely and in Nicias's brief time onstage, Joyner creates a vain but imminently likeable fellow. His mini-skirt almost has one fearful of seeing something revealed that shouldn't be.


Everyone is barefoot but with stunning, ornate ankle ornaments by a company called (Venetian pedicurists must have been working overtime during this production!).

While the opera is called Thais – and as terrific as Mei is in the role – it is Michele Pertusi as Athanaël - who just about walks away with the show. His is a presence that is never less than magnificent and I can't think of a better master of the pose than he; his hands, feet, face and his, every gesture is weighted with meaning and seems as an El Greco painting has come to life. Vocally, Pertusi wraps his himself around the role with a seemingly instinctual madness and burns with an intensity that never lets up (even after the final curtain – you'll see what I mean!)



While costumes are "traditional" in their representation of early A.D. Egypt, the physical production is representational and sparse with stunning use of the stage (though the literally dozens and dozens of crosses – another heavy symbol here initially had me thinking "overkill" – but actually? It works!)


Marcello Viotti leads the Fenice forces - orchestra and chorus in a moving and theatrical reading. This is one of the most exciting DVDs I purchased this year (2004).

Pelléas et Mélisande : Faith Esham and Jerry Hadley - Wow!

I’ve been listening to a fascinating performance of Pelléas et Mélisande from 1992. Lyric Opera of Chicago with Faith Esham, Jerry Hadley and Victor Braun. Teresa Stratas was taking over the role for Frederica von Stade, but cancelled the first two performances so Faith Esham made her Lyric Opera debut. Pelleas is among my favorite operas, so I’ve heard many pairings over my lifetime (so far) and, fan of both Ms. Esham and Mr. Hadley that I am, was not quite prepared for the performance they presented on opening night. I generally prefer a tenor in the role (Richard Stilwell, Simon Keenlyside, taking top honors for baritones) and Hadley does not disappoint in that regard. He and Esham both had very bright sounding voices which sounds so “right” in French, their diction crisp yet fluid – perfect for Debussy’s “problem” opera. The scenes between Esham and Braun’s Golaud have a depth and bite that could convince even non-fans this is a drama more than about “nothing.”

At the start, Braun seems a tad less gruff than many a Golaud, but he gradually sinks into a sort of cruelty - a violence that ever grows in its intensity until it becomes downright horrifying, even before his ultimate crime.

My favorite tenor Pelleas has, for a time, been Richard Croft and Hadley’s performance here does not take him down from the shelf, but boy, is he terrific in his own way. Croft has an elegance that fits in with Debussy’s soundscape – just about perfectly. Hadley, on the other hand, does not skimp on matters musical – and in certain moments (notably in the Tower scene) brings his own brand of elegance. More often than not, however, there is a slight “roughness” (not the sound itself, but the way he handles the role) that is unusual yet perfectly in tune with his and Esham's take on the lovers.

Esham’s first of several utterances of “Pelleas” in the Tower scene is sparked with an undeniable eroticism that shocks . While many Melisandes retain an aloofness throughout the role, Esham makes her seem almost familiar, yet somehow just as puzzling and troubled. In the middle of a scene she may add a touch of nervousness to her sound emphasizing the girlishness which, along with that brightness and ease of the language (her best roles truly were Manon, Juliette, Leila, Marguerite . . . ) makes this a special performance. Also, like a tenor Pelleas, a soprano (as opposed to mezzo) Melisande really changes the tone of the opera.

The great Act IV love scene drips with passion and Esham and Hadley sound as if they can barely contain themselves – and then when Hadley’s Pelleas reaches, “Et maintenant je t'ai trouvee. . . je ne crois pas qui'il . . . ait sur la terre un femme plus belle!" they – and we – realize they cannot. Breathless passion mounts into a sudden, slow ecstasy, each singer now sounding, somehow, a bit older, as if the realization of this love has aged them. It's almost more like they're playing "grown up,” which makes Golaud’s sudden appearance and slaughter of Pelleas more unbearably than it already is, Melisande's final cry adding an extra punctuation mark of horror.

Yvonne Minton, turns in her customary excellence in the fairly ungrateful role of Genevieve, and Dimitri Kavrakos is touching as Arkel. Soprano, Lucy Tamez Creech has a very boyish voice, though it appears she sang Yniold from the pit while child actor Joel Eng pantomimed onstage.

James Conlon, like every conductor of this opera, has a passion for it that comes out through his masterful reading of it. He brings out the sonic wonderment of the score, while keeping everything and everyone in near perfect balance. I would have liked a bit more “oomph” and drive at the beginning of the love scene, but this approach and gradual build up certainly makes good dramatic sense. The “special effects” of the percussion section – bells, etc., absolutely sparkle and shine. During the first intermission of the broadcast, he is interviewed and offers terrific insights into Debussy’s masterpiece and the characters who populate it. He draws an interesting parallel between Arkel and Pelleas that I’d never really thought about before. I love when someone sheds new light on something that can, at times, seem almost overly familiar. It puts things back into the right perspective and makes me, as here, love that thing all the more.

Since recently moving, and giving away/selling many of my recordings I’m not certain how many of “Pelleas” I still own, but this would have been, according to my estimation, the 32nd in my collection. I think that qualifies me as a Pelleas obsessive, oui?

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