Luciano and Renata's Perfect Boheme

I've had a lot of time over this Thanksgiving holiday being at home and staying warm. A constant friend has been the TV. While attention has been given to Netflix, with "Get Shorty" and Season 3 of "Dare Devil" vying to be my favorite show, a lot of time has also been spent on the worth-every-penny "Met on Demand." In the past few days I've watched "Wagner's Dream"; "The Opera House"; "Giulio Cesare"; "Die Walkure"; and a few others, but nothing surprised me - or lite me up nearly as much - as a production I'd not watched since its re-release a decade or so ago - and an opera I often steer clear out of sheer over familiarity. The opera? "La Boheme." The stars? Luciano Pavarotti and Renata Scotto. While the singing, naturally, goes straight to the heart of the matter, there was something about the entire cast's performance, but notably our Mimi and Rodolfo.

While Scotto famously stated that after seeing herself in this production, she immediately decided she had to lose weight to become more effective actress, I don't think it's true. She can't by any stretch be considered "fat" and her Mimi could not possibly be more dramatic and heartbreaking without crossing over into caricature. Her gestures are large, born of a verismo-esque style that she brought to the many non-verismo operas, which had mostly been her bread and butter. Those larger than life gestures are not in the least unwelcomehere as the diminutive diva accesses the broad scope of emotions Puccini gives his Mimi; there is shyness, there is strength of purpose, there is a little pride, a little anger, a little self pity and a million other things all beating in this girl's enormous heart. Her Act 4 "dumb show" during the interlude, after the other Bohemians leave and Rodolfo's back is turned to her - a noble, arduous attempt to rise from her death bed fails as the music swells with life and, caught in the blankets she is held, earthbound, is a lesson in physical acting that took my breath away. At almost every turn, Scotto is not a star, but a true member of an ensemble, something that seems to happen more these days, but too rarely seen back then. But, she also knows when to turn it on showing us why death scenes were something of a Scotto specialty.

Also part of an ensemble was the Rodolfo of Luciano Pavarotti. Considerably svelter than before (and then he would be shortly thereafter) there is something of the natural comedian about this bear-like tenor and he exhibits a physical grace and energy that was, and would again becom, rare for him. His rush to pick up a dropped item from the floor, his bending to the floor with Mimi, his "dash" across the stage, the faux balletic poses he strikes for the Act Four dance sequence, it all feels natural creating a Rodolfo that is sunnier and less "I'm just a dope in love" than we sometimes saw from him later. And then there's the singing. Ave Maria, the sounds made are the Rodolfo of one's dreams and together, he and Little Renata truly do make music.


The rest of the cast was, more or less, also up to the task, but there was no mistaking whose show this was, even while being about them all, though I'd single out Alan Monk's Schaunard for some touching acting, and being the sort of "framer"of the death scene, and wonderfully captured by the cameras.

Fabrizio Melano directs the cast in this uber-traditional production (on loan from Lyric Opera of Chicago) with no nonsense, and Levine and the Met forces were, even then, in tremendous form and in service of Puccini.

The excitement extends, as it always should, through the curtain calls and cheers, and while everyone milks it for all their worth, no one holds a candle to La Scotto. She enters to a roar from the house and immediately makes a deep curtsy then moves, almost ninja-like toward the stage apron to retrieve a small bouquet, and in so doing kneels, than sits there like she was Judy Garland. Naturally, the ovation intensifies and so does Scotto's beaming, beatific smile. Another lesson from the old days.


Oddly, I think a lot of today's opera's powers-that-be would find this old production with youngish, though still middle-aged singers, to be the antithesis of what they feel opera should be about. I'd disagree and say, at least in this instance, it is everything opera should and can be about.

Met's New Tosca!

Met's Season Opener: Le Nozze fi Figaro

I found - at least as presented over the Sirius broadcast, last night to be a thoroughly enjoyable "Le Nozze di Figaro" with some special moments, one being getting to know the voice of Amanda Majeski, whose quick vibrato I found to have a lovely Pilar Lorengar-ish flutter which I found enormously attractive.

While I'm no HIP-ster, Levine led a "modern opera house orchestra" performance that was brimming with life and energy.

I've heard some complaints of its dragging, but I found Levine's tempi frequently to be on the brisk side, while certain things were prone toward a Levine-ian exaggeration (which I sometimes mind and sometimes don't).

Overall, he shaped the evening with remarkable elasticity that bore the obvious stamp of his love for this opera. This was noticeable in "Dove sono", but nowhere more so than the in the first part of the Act II finale, where Figaro begins (for me) one of Mozart's most beautiful melodies at "Mente il ceffo, iogià non mento."

Last night Abdrazakov's Figaro began this moment a bit more brusquely than most (a nice effect in this lovely melody), then immediately smoothed out by Susanna and Rosina's "Il talento aguzzi invano," - until all three implore the Count to give in. Here, Levine seemed to breathe Mozart with almost imperceptible shifts of rhythm and creating a magic that brought tears to my eyes at the sheer beauty of the sound.

Not that any of this matters, but under Levine this moment occurred approximately an hour and 27 minutes into the show. Comparing it to three other recordings/performances (Salzburg 2006; the '75 Ponnelle/Bohm film with Prey, Fischer-Dieskau, Freni, Te Kanawa
&Ewing; and the HIP recording of Le Petite Band led by Kuijken) and this moment occurred, 8 minutes earlier than Salzburg, about a minute earlier than Bohm, and almost 7 minutes AFTER Kuijken! (Yes, I'm that obsessive and do this sort of thing all the time.)

Some complained about Isabel Leonard's voice being too big or mature for the character of Cherubino, but I wasn't one of them. I found the robust but still youthful sound appropriately "masculine" for this trouser role.

Marlis Petersen was charming and delighted the ear as Susanna, never once exhibiting exhaustion in this long sing (some refer to Susanna as the Brunnhilde of lyric soprano roles).

As mentioned Ildar Abdrazakov had a rougher hue to his sound than I typically like in the character of Figaro, but the basso's charm worked in his favor in creating the character, though at the upper reaches he sounded strained and faint. Still, he put his stamp on the role and while it won't go down as my favorite Figaro, he was certainly an enjoyable one.

Peter Mattei's Count Almaviva consistently offered some of the evening's finest singing and his actorly way with text served to bring to life a Count that was deeper on most levels than many present in the role, and one who reminded me of his character a few years earlier in The Barber of Seville. Marvelous work.

On an entirely different front, I got a laugh-out-loud charge from Deborah Voigt's "diva bitch fest" intermission feature, with Fleming and Co. There was a lot of talk about Fleming's upcoming "Merry Widow," but the future Hannah veered the conversation to her performances of the Countess in Paris during a political uprising, and then segued into her trip to Israel during a dangerous period. Voigt interrupted to say something along the lines of, "that's all very nice, but I want to talk about The Merry Widow." During her interview with Anna Netrebko, the Russian went on talking about how she's performed Susanna over 150 times, causing Voigt to quip how Anna was too temperamental to play the Countess. Even over the airwaves you could sense the Russian diva's irritation, before responding, "I don't like the Countess, she doesn't interest me." Voigt recovered by asking about Anna's gown, sending Nebs into a description of how the gown had been specially made for her by Yanina, the famous Russian designer who lives in Paris etc. This was followed by Mary Jo Heath's interview of Anita Rachvellischvilli, who immediately informed us she'd sung Carmen over 150 times and how her gown was also made by a famous designer, but she hates people who name drop, and he didn't feel the need her to advertise for him. Snap.

Nozze seemed an unusual choice for a season opener, but for this guy, it worked nicely. I very much look forward to seeing this production.

It's a Sad, Sad, Sad, Sad World: Goerne's Surprise Wozzeck at the Met

My jaw hit the proverbial floor yesterday when I heard the announcement that, for opening night of the Met's revival of Alban Berg's masterpiece, "Wozzeck," Matthias Goerne was stepping in at the last possible minute for an ailing Thomas Hampson. Goerne agreed sometime late afternoon for a performance (in a staging he'd never done and seen only once) to take part in the performance that would begin only 3 or 4 hours from his decision. (On a side note, I'm certain I wasn't alone in wondering "will he/won't he?" regarding Hampson and this Wozzeck.) Hopefully Mr. Hampson recovers and we get to hear his take on the role, but what a treat to hear one of the 2 or 3 leading Wozzecks of our time in his role debut at the Big House - even if I couldn't be there, thankfully it was carried on Sirius/XM Radio.

First off, having Levine back in the pit was a joy, despite his naysayers who complain of his treating Wozzeck as though it were The Merry Widow. The nuances, beauties, subtleties and in-your-face horrors of Berg's tremendous
score came crashing through, revealing just why this opera is one of the few 20th century operas to have gained such a stronghold on audiences and an obsession for so many (myself included). The celeste music that opens the first scene between Wozzeck and Marie always tears me up, its gentleness like the faintest ray of light peering through the darkest, densest and frightening forest - and Jimmy made this moment truly shine.

Some complain that Goerne is too much of a lieder singer and not enough "oomph" but I love his throaty brand of singing found him to have the perfect mix of beauty and roughness that makes Wozzeck the most pitiable (and oddly loveable - in an entirely different way) character The scenes between Wozzeck and Marie were heartbreaking - right up until his knife takes her. I would have loved to have been able to have been there to see him in this production.

As Marie, Deborah Voigt started off pretty rough and there is almost not a drop of beauty anywhere left in that once most beautiful of voices. Lower, unforced passages, the faintest glimmer of its former beauty tried to leak out, a sad
reminder of what once was. Her commitment, however, seemed total and, some horrifying (and unnecessary) shrieking sounds aside, she was able to create an effective portrayal of this poor anti-heroine. I'm certain seeing her would have made the effect even more powerful.

Peter Hoare was terrific as the Captain as was Mr. O'Neil as the Drum major . . . though his singing made me glad they swapped out Parsifal for Wozzeck as I can't imagine that voice - at least as heard last night - as the new Grail King,
less so, Ms. Voigt as Kundry. Clive Bailey kept the Met tradition going of offering really fine singers as the Doctor in this opera ... they luck out every time, and so do we.

Once again, Levine and the band were the real stars -along with Herr Berg. The interludes did everything the composer wanted them to and maybe just a bit more in offering relief from the brutality of Wozzeck's sad, sad, sad, sad world!

As a "bonus" here is a dress rehearsal shot of Mr. Hampson finishing off Marie!

Remembering Lorraine Hunt Lieberson: Les Troyens in a Blizzard

One of my most cherished Met memories was during the President's Day blizzard of 2003. The storm was hitting hard and my flight from Maine was cancelled the day before. I hopped on a Greyhound and watched as the storm seemed to follow me all the way down to Manhattan. I arrived just in time for an event at Alice Tully Hall and upon exiting at concert's end, walked into a virtual white out. (I'd end up stranded in NY for days - happily so!)

The next day - as the storm raged on with snow falling at a reported 4 inches per hour, I attempted to call to the Met to learn whether that evening's performance of “Les Troyens” (my sole reason for visiting New York) was still scheduled. Not able to get through, I schlepped the several blocks to the Lincoln Center and made it through the revolving door. The place seemed entirely empty. I was soon informed by the surly (and lone) box office attendant "The Met never closes, we only closed once because of weather in the company's history, so yeah, there's a performance tonight,” he handed me my tickets and I resisted the urge to not thank him, but politeness (and relief) prevailed.

Some hours later and dressed for the storm rather than a night at the opera, (I felt a bit self conscious, but ultimately didn‘t care) I slugged through several feet of freshly fallen snow which was blanketing an almost entirely a deserted Broadway, finally feeling an already strange sense of accomplishment, as I entered the crammed, (and unusually loud) lobby. A sense of occasion I’d not before felt in the house filled it . . . A palpable and communal sensation of "Phew! We made it!" and I watched joyously as elated friends and strangers smiled at one another, laughing unselfconsciously as salt and snow melted off of boots leaving muddy puddles everywhere while people pulled off their snow encrusted parkas, furs, hats and gloves.

The performance - the third of the run - was magnificent in nearly every way; one of the finest of many evening's I’d spent in that house. Deborah Voigt seemed transformed as Cassandra, singing lower and deeper than I'd ever heard (or believed possible) as well as digging more physically into a role than I could remember seeing from her . A newly slimmed Ben Heppner (who had cracked at the prima) began sturdily, growing better all night, while looking almost del Monaco-like, and, like Voigt, up to his acting challenges. The standout performance however, was that of Lorraine Hunt Lieberson, a somewhat late replacement for Olga Borodina as Didon. This was one of the most vocally intense, beautifully sung performances I'd heard from this singer - or any singer - before or since and a very long opera virtually seemed to fly by. Early reports of Francesca Zambello's production had produced some light controversy about its strangeness, but this audience seemed so animated and in tune with it I believe most of us could've sat through the whole thing again as soon as it had ended. A comanding, electricifying and theatrically satisfying evening of French Grand Opera.

Recently, with the mention of a release of this performance to celebrate James Levine’s 40th anniversary with the company, I perused my notes concerning Lorraine Hunt-Lieberson's performance and memories washed over me to the point of being overwhelmed all over again by the experience. Upon arriving back at my lodgings I’d written the following:

To go a notch above greatness requires a certain magic and that is precisely what Lorraine Hunt Lieberson provided tonight. This was a performance for the ages; with a singer radiant in visage, form and voice. An operatic wonder, she deploys her voice with with such intelligence and strength revealing an innate and almost unbelievable ability to endlessly pour out such pointed singing, wedding text to music with such body and heart it was no wonder the audience seemed to adore her as much as Didon's Carthaginians. Reports of a pinched note at the top of the range on opening night showed no evidence Monday evening - every note secure and beautifully sung (though an A# toward the end had a slightly strained, quickened vibrato which only added further excitement). A unique combination of stately grace and natural ease making her at once part of, yet apart from, her subjects added even deeper dimensions to a performance already begun with intensity and sense of purpose. I (and I imagine everyone else) smile during her scenes with Enee as they nestled together during the divertissements; the looks of love each cast upon the other was indeed touching and romantic. She and Heppner sustained such a level of electricity throughout the duet I was caught up in it instantly (mostly ignoring the odd aerialist ballet above that threatened a stage accident of immortal proportion) and my face ached from smiling so much at their joy.

All of this loveliness made Didon’s tragic, downward spiral into despair and anger riveting, bone chilling stuff. Pulling, that great crude curtain across the stage and wrapping herself within it (as had Cassandra before her) it became a visible sign - a shroud of her queenly grief which extended far beyond mere self-pitying. Then, shock as she chillingly screamed out how she should have served Enee the limbs of his son, Ascagne in some macabre feast - so fearless was her utterance here I didn't for a moment doubt this new, dark creature before to be in the least incapable of such dark actions, so believably gruesome was her descent into dark despondency. Then another profound change - Didon’s death; resolved and broken, this Didon was truly touching . . . profoundly heartbreaking. This seemed no longer mere performance, but rather a channeling of spirit reaching all the way back to Virgil himself.

After a sustained ovation of cheers and bravi, I walked out onto the Plaza - the snow had, at least for a time, ceased falling, the air felt - and smelled - cleaner than before, and the sharpness of the cold made me feel both alive yet as if in some great waking dream. As I walked back down Broadway, it was, as it had been before, empty, desolate - no buses, no cabs, only a few others who, like me, felt as though we were walking on clouds.

Final Schenk Walkure Morris and Wotan's Farewell

Listening over Sirius, there were moments early on in Act II when I thought Morris simply would not make it all the way through – the voice sounding at times tired, the vibrato thickening and widening and some notes revealing that bit of a wobble none of us wants to admit to hearing. And there was some cracking. And yet, the manner in which he painted the text, the way he phrased and shaped this music eliminated ANY fear or notion of failure I’d held for him. By "Wotan’s Farewell" Morris had me forgetting I wasn’t even AT the Met. I was so completely involved, and so moved I didn’t know if I’d make it through to the end dry-eyed. I did not.

I wondered how I'd feel in the morning, but in the morning afterglow I can admit the following: I don’t believe I’ve ever heard Wotan's Farewell sung more tenderly, more lovingly - or more beautifully than last night’s singing of it by Mr. Morris. He caressed the line with this almost ineffable sweetness revealing all the emotion in this remarkable scene but with an extra "something" that seemed like an embracement of the occasion itself. You could hear him slowing things down, with Levine allowing it . . . guiding it all. Here, too, was this exaggerated yet entirely genuine feeling lingering over parts of the text . . . a hanging on to of word endings one into the next, as if never wanting to let them go. We can talk about the greats, talk about the golden age Wotans of yore – Morris, for me, is in that company. This was golden age singing, speaking to and engaging the brain and spirit every bit as much as the ear.

I know a lot of folks complain about Linda Watson, but I thoroughly enjoyed (most of) her performance last night. She has a sort of unrefined, rawness about her sound – a wildness, if you will – that I simply love in this music. The vibrato can be wide and sound like it’s spinning out of control, and yet I find her singing exciting; fully engaged and attuned to Brunhilde’s situation(s).
Pape was, predictably, a formidable Hunding. I love that such a major star was at the Met this season singing the "minor roles" of Hunding and Fasolt. Luxury casting, perhaps, but no less than what these roles call for and Pape delivered both to us in spades. I definitely hear Wotan in this voice.

Kudos too, to Gary Lehmann who has become one of the Met’s Wagnerian "Go To Guys" over the past two seasons. Last night he stepped in as a mid-act replacement for Domingo who, after Wintersturme could not continue the performance (and here’s to hoping Placido’s on the mend). Lehmann did yeoman’s work last night and I sincerely hope the Met realizes what they have in him and assure themselves some future "ass savings" by offering him something besides cover work.

I was especially moved at the end by Morris’s solo curtain. It went on seemingly forever. I loved that Levine brought Morris out by himself for a penultimate ovation before leading the entire cast back out and doing a rare "crossing of the stage."

The first intermission interview with Albert Dohmen was one of the very best of the entire season. What a charming, intelligent, astutely observant and fascinating man this is – and what a splendid Wotan he was last week.

This was a special night, a special broadcast and I found myself even more moved than I usually am during Walkure. Looking forward to tomorrow night’s Siegfried and Morris’s last go at The Wanderer.

I've not been able to attend a single Ring opera this season but, thanks to Sirius, I've been able to catch most of them and what a gloriouso cycle this has been!

Met Opening Night Gala: A Wagnerian Length Evening of Scenes

After picking me up early from work, my Met HD Gang and I headed to the Brunswick Regal for the Met Opening Night Gala. Years ago I realized I’m not really an opera gala kinda guy – nights in “three acts” from different works not really being my cup of tea. Much preferable to me are evenings comprised of aria recitals or, even better, entire operas. But there was so much hullaballo surrounding this one there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of missing it. It felt pretty special returning to the sold-out show (as with all of the Met HD offerings here, two or more theatres had to be opened). I must say the chaotic, disorganized hour or so before the gala proper began was a bit of a chore to sit through after a long day at work: a beer and a sandwich would have helped enormously. Still, it was pleasant enough to catch snippets of some celebrity sightings and listen to the unimportant blatherings – as we all agree – these things ain’t all about the music!

First a word on the gowns (and I’m no fashionista – quite the opposite). Renee looked sensational all night, even in that wretched, godawful, tattered Christian Lacroix deconstructed rag for the first Traviata scene. Seriously, it looked like a clown blew up and was then fed into a shredding machine. It was horrific. The next scene’s gown looked considerably better, but so too would have a dirty housedress. The Karl Lagerfeld gown for Manon reminded me nothing so much as something designed for Elsa . . . and I don’t mean von Brabant, but Lanchester - as in “Bride of Frankenstein.” Seriously. It looked particularly drab in comparison to the “lesser lights” of the costumes for the overblown Cours-la-Reine scene (which looked strangely deflated on the big screen in comparison to having seen it a number of times in the house). The final Galliano number for Capriccio was absolutely stunning (though my friends and I got unduly excited thinking Fleming had a snake tattooed on her back . . . she should!). She looked like a million bucks primping, massaging her boobies, and slinking back and forth across the stage like Veronica Lake in a bob (and did anyone get a load of the heels on her? Holy Stiletto, Batman!)

I thought Hampson started off a bit dry and stiff vocally, but my lord, he opened up for the Di Provenza. I found him to be an extremely and uniquely touching, Germont: awkward and thoughtful (and I believe these were choices, not discomfort of being in the role). When Violetta asks “embrace me as a daughter” and throws herself into his arms, this Germont simply didn’t know how to respond, which I felt entirely appropriate. As to complaints about Fleming slowing down the “Amami Alfredo!” – there is a long tradition of Violettas who have done so and I LOVE it when they do. Sills, one of the lightest voiced Violettas ever, could turn, pull and chew those few bars almost into an entire aria. Callas could bring down the pace here, as well. I think it fits the drama perfectly and though Fleming does not necessarily place among my favorite Violettas of all time, I liked what she did with the role (at least for an act) last night. Very much so. (What a drag that Vargas didn’t get his cabaletta, though!)

Throughout the night the singing would be mixed, but mostly good throughout the night, with top vocal honors going easily to Ramon Vargas. My God, I cannot wait to hear him as Des Grieux, a role I find it hard to believe he’s not yet taken on. The “Ah, fuyez” began a bit softer than I like (but hardly inappropriately so) with a slight hesitancy that had me worried he wouldn’t pour everything he had into it. I needn’t have been concerned, as he simply tore the aria up! I really think this is one of the “prettiest” tenor voices in the opera world today, and even if he’s not quite a dynamo actor, he has such appealing, genuine presence that I find myself always routing for this singer (and his Rodolfo last season was exceptional). I loved how he and Fleming kicked it up a couple of notches completely losing all inhibitions and raising the erotic quotient to . . . well, pretty damned high. People in the Cineplex gasped and tittered when Renee literally flung herself backwards over the Prie Dieu, pushing up her girly bits and striking – and holding – a “take me now” pose that was smoking hot! This really is the best scene (and music) of this opera and they did it proud last night.

I really thought Robert Lloyd pulled off Daddy Des Grieux rather nicely (loved the mocking applause and admonishment he gave his son – comical, snide, paternal . . . ). Armiliato got a good reading of the French perfume out of the Met band, moving things along nicely when necessary while still being able to luxuriate in the sound of his singers.

Though Fleming sounded good, involved (and sometimes slightly taxed by the evening) the Strauss was sung with an often refulgent tone that hadn’t been present in anything else all evening. It was a nice capper and what made it especially sweet was seeing Michael Devlin again . . . I’ve always been a fan of his and he seems to be going on forever, good for him! I was startled - pleasantly so - by how many people in our audience were riveted by the Dr. Atomic previews. I can't wait for this one!

It was fun spotting Joe Clark in an early backstage moment (funny how many people recognized him from previous cinecasts, even though he was “out” of the limelight last night) Equally fun was meeting his replacement, (can’t remember his name, but we dubbed him “Little Joe” last night!) who seems like a real charmer. Susan Graham and Deborah Voigt seemed a little odd and stiff last night, both in a sort of "charm the masses" mode that didn't feel natural from either of them.

I think Martha Stewart should've been mixing those cocktails a little earlier in the evening. It WAS funny watching Rufus Wainwright in his sparkly cowboy outfit trying to steal a bit of camera time thought mostly ignored and blocked from view by Martha and Susie. It was a ridiculously long night and not the best showing from from the Met, but as noted already, these evenings ain't all about the music; the buzz is out for the season and I think great, great things are in store for us this year! I can't wait!