Pablo Larrain's MARIA: Great Callas' Ghost

Pablo Larrain's latest film, Maria,  begins at the very end of the sad life of legendary soprano, Maria Callas.  Through the long shot  of a camera we see Maria's doctor, butler, medics, and the police waiting for her body to be taken away.  All seem as if in prayer, as an actual prayer - or rather an operatic one - Desdemona's Ave Maria from Verdi's Otello - begins. I couldn't help but immediately think of one of Callas' most celebrated roles, Violetta, in Franco Zeffirelli's production for her of La Traviata. Both open with the heroine's death, then shifts between from past to present, as though in flashbacks. In Maria, it often happens without warning.  It felt - to me - a very Callas-like thing for Larrain to do, but I've not heard anyone else mention this, so perhaps I'm looking too deeply.  That's how I think. Sue me.  

Admittedly, being obsessed with this artist since boyhood, and having seen every bio documentary, read the conservatory programs from her Athens' girlhood, own the entire Juilliard masterclass collection, and more, I was both excited - and anxious for the arrival of Larrain's movie. It did not disappoint. 

Many critics are calling it a slog . . . tedious . . . endless, yet, apart from a single scene which I might have shaved a minute from, I found its pacing perfect . . . all of a piece.  Yes, it moves slowly, gently . . . almost dreamlike at times, but never a slot but rather always with determined purpose and, as it progressed, much like that Zeffirelli Traviata, I felt Maria to be a sort of ghost story, the title character's death bookending her tragedy. 

For the literal minded, I can see this movie as being wildly problematic. There is a 1970's foreign film/art house quality which puts us at a distance.  We become observers, rather than participants.  It feels somehow un-American, a dangerous thing to say these days! All of this is helped along by Steven Knight who adds to an already remarkable catalog of scripts.  Knight provides cues and clues that serve like a metaphysical roadmap as to which direction Larrain should take the story, moving it - and us - through a haze of events both real and illusory.  Near the beginning La Callas commands: Come with me said the diva, and there was really no need to ask,''where?"  Some will perceive this as a sort of haughtiness, but I believe it's actually more of an instruction - a key for us to let go of reason. This is reinforced later when Maria explains, point blank, In opera, there IS no reason.  So . .. that's going to be a big problem for a lot of audiences, but that's actually okay because this is not a movie for them (or you, if you're reading this and feel the same).  

Larrain lavishes everything he has to make his film look and feel both beautiful and liberating, yet also almost uncomfortably stifling and distant. He uses lightness and dark like colors, right down to his shifts between black and white, faded/muted hues, and a dreamlike autumnal wash colliding simultaneously between the outside world of reality, and Maria's drug fueled hallucinatory realm. Through all of this, Larrain and his team provide, unwaveringly, stunning details, from knick knacks on shelves, to housemaid Bruna's flipping of an omelet, or Callas' hiding of pills in pockets, all the way down to her beloved poodles dancing on their hind legs impatiently awaiting their supper.

And then there's Paris.  Looking like Maria's personal dreamscape, with its boulevards and Trocadero Square filled with orchestras and choruses, these fantasy sequences culminate in one of the film's most emotionally beautiful moments. During a rainstorm we see and hear, along with Maria, the Humming Chorus from Madama Butterfly as a kimono-clad Maria joins them in a shower of tears and rain. It took my breath away.  

Cinematographer, Ed Lachman's work here is about as beautiful as it gets, and reflective of his achievements. Seamlessly, he blends 35, 16, and 8 mm film stock - both color and black and white - to serve up Larrain's and Knight's vision. They are like the Holy Trinity on this project.  

None of this comes alive, however, without actors and here, Larrain's insistence and vision of Angelina Jolie pays off handsomely. Criticism of Jolie's portrayal had me worried going in, but all that was laid to rest - almost immediately.  It didn't bother me that Jolie is not a Callas clone - in fact, I'm glad they didn't go the fake nose or padded stockings angle to create a Madame Tussauds figure, but rather get beneath the skin of this Maria.  And by this Maria, I don't mean the actual Callas because - well, that's pretty much impossible, isn't it?  That said, while Jolie - especially when viewed head on - may not strongly resemble the real Maria, there are moments when the tilt of the head, or a glimpse reflected in a mirror, feel as though the ghost of Maria is present. Crazy? Absolutely. But, that's also the beauty and the magic of cinema; anything and everything is possible.  

There were a thousand versions of Maria in real life and now, dead for half a century, we have even more; more stories, more versions of them, more . . . everything. That girl from New York, Maria Anna Cecilia Sofia Kalogeropoúlos, turned into Maria Callas, and that Maria Callas has, in death, moved into another realm entirely: the mythological. 

Ms. Jolie's Maria is a magnificent creature. Proud, vain, broken, needy, and haunted.  The actor straddles both worlds - real and imagined - with a purposefully increasing difficulty before ultimately not seeming to care which one she's in. It is an almost soul searing thing watching someone giving up. Jolie reflects this in her gestures, her hands, her sad, beautiful face, and we hear it in her words.  At one point she tells someone, someone very important to her, I don't even know if you're real.  Suddenly, neither do we. From the film's earliest moments I sensed in Jolie a kinship and admiration for the woman she's portraying.  She believes in her, speaks like her, and ultimately moves through each scene like the ghost that this Maria is.

Supporting roles, too, are beautifully done, with Kodi Smit-McPhee  as Mandrax, the mysterious documentarian, Haluk Bilginer's oily, near grotesque Onassis, and Stephen Ashfield's supportive, if mildly pushy Jeffrey Tate. Pride of place however, goes to Pierfrancesco Favino's Ferruccio and Alba Rohrwacher's Bruna, Maria's butler and housemaid. Along with Maria, this trio have formed a comfortable, small misfit family.  The love between them can be sensed - even when Maria's seeming annoyance with them is on display. Those moments are beautiful, and provide the movie's (I almost said opera's) warmest and most amusing scenes.  

Since we are dealing strictly with the final week of Maria's life, much of the story is revealed through flashbacks of Maria's youth in Athens, her triumphs at La Scala, the re-imagined (and historically inaccurate) beginning of her affair with Onassis, and a private meeting with JFK. The musical excerpts are fairly glorious . . . until they progressively become sadder and more painful, on the ears yes, but even more so in the heart. 

I've always obsessed with the artistry of Callas, and hungry for everything I can find about her, on her . . . all of it.  But, I also firmly believe that, like all historical figures, their life stories cannot adequately be told in a so-called biopic. If we truly want to know them - at least as best as we are able, it is through documentaries, biographies, research, those who ay have known them, and yet, even those give only incomplete portraits.  But a film, a biopic is always going to be filtered through the lens of the artist making it - which then reflects only his or her  truth.  It is through taking the time to listen and explore the actual work of the artist we get to know what's most important about them. This is not to say that is all they were, for everything they went through personally and professionally is what delivered them to us in the first place. But we can't ever really know that.  Not really.     

So, with its imagined narrative Larrain's Maria does not even qualify as a biopic in any sense. It is more of a tone-poem for the senses where instead of facts or history, we enter a version - a vision, or a reverie if you will, based on the imagined final days of a legend . . . of this mythological Maria everyone thinks they know, but none of us do. Or can.  

Many lines remain with me, but none felt more true than Maria's admission  to Mandrake, I am afraid audiences expect miracles, and I no longer can perform miracles.  

If you can succumb to Mr. Larrain's style . . . the gift he and his formidable company of artists have created, and wrapped so beautifully for us, you may be moved just as much as I was. Am. 

Why Regietheater Doesn't Work

Why Regietheater Doesn't Work


Hänsel und Gretel - Staatsoper Berlin

Okay, perhaps I got your attention - and you stand on one side of this argument or the other. Yes, the title is a misleading, particularly to those who know me as champion of a lot of regie productions, but the statement is also, unfortunately true. When inspired and when it workk, something not necessarily simultaneous as one might believe, regie can illuminate a familiar opera up to levels we'd not before thought of. It can provoke discussions on works too frequently "ho-hummed" despite their being well-attended, respected works of the lyric theatre. Good regietheater can shake us up, pull us out of the seemingly ordinary and elucidate a work as familiar as your staid, old Aunt Claire who for years has bored you to tears, until your discovering she was a topless dancer at the Folies Bergère and had a lesbian affair with Josephine Baker. Huh? What? Exactly.

Pelléas et Mélisande - Salzburg

Unfortunately, a good chunk of Regie fails for a number of reasons, but chiefly two: First, the director does not know enough about and/or truly respect the work entrusted to her or his care; and second, opera singers are not good enough actors to pull off the stunts required by those untrusting directors. I have a lot of opera singer friends who may get upset about that, and believe me, as a former (though never made it to the pros) opera singer, I mean that not as a slam in any way. I'll explain.

Pelléas et Mélisande - Salzburg

All opera singers are trained in acting and some, naturally gifted, could easily transition to the spoken stage and make a career there - athough why anyone would choose to not sing when one can is something both foreign and incomprehensible to me, not to mention ridiculous. Others not so gifted in the acting department (and that's the majority), can and often do succeed through sheer discipline, dedication to their art and guidance from their teachers, workshops, coaches and directors. These singers cultivate their skills to the highest level, and like any well-practiced skill, are often leave an impact that can be, and frequently is, stronger and more impressive than the so-called "natural." Think about how many performances you've attended where a singer, not particularly known for their acting, uses all of the tools of their trade to suckerpunch your heart and leave you in wide-eyed stun mode by what you've witnessed from them. These are the singers who have learned how to work with the music to serve the composer, how to create an effect that may on some surface level wow us, but even more importantly, dig beneath the surface and can transfuse the composer's music from their soul into our own. This is the magic of opera.

Tannhäuser - BayerischeStaatsoper München
When that connection is not understood by a director, there is a break in the chain between the composer, the singer and us, and this is never a good thing. Never. Ever.

We know a director doesn't trust the material (even if she/he is unaware of that) whenever We see them giving singers "business" to draw our eye to something, all while that something is remains in the mind of the director alone. It is not transferrable to either the singer, or to us, the audience., The singer may execute this business precisely as instructed, even to the satisfaction and delight of the director, but its meaning remains obscured to the point of being not only unnecessary, but actually intrusive.

Don Carlos - Düren, Germany

I recently watched a baroque opera where the director has updated the action and places one scene in a bar where two blokes are downing shots. One of them, the tenor, elaborately struggles to, then succesfully lights a cigarette, which he then waves around in what appear to be meaningless and distracting gestures. We look for some meaning in them, but there ultimately are none. He finishes his smoke, then mid-aria, his friend gestures for a smoke, the tenor offers him one, lights it, then reaches back into his pocket, withdraws and lights another for himself. Throughout the remainder of the aria he continues to perform the awkward gesticulations waving the cigarette about as if punctuating the text of this one sentence, da capo aria. At it's conclusion he tosses the cigarette behind the bar and storms out. What happened? It's anyone's guess.

Smoking onstage is a difficult enough thing to pull off, and is always an audience distraction with nearly everyone wondering: "is that a real cigarette? Is the singer a smoker? Doesn't the smoke bother other singers?" but most of all "why is this character smoking?" Too quickly and all too easily that unnecessary action it becomes the central "thing" to watch, and, instead of furthering the action or our understanding, only further separates us from the actual opera itself. Likewise, the singer, also is distracted by performing this hand ballet so irrelevant to the plot and to what he's singing about, all of it producing an effect wholly unrelated to the opera, and unnatural to the storytelling in every way possible. This is never a good thing. An actor from the spoken stage may be able to pull this off, but this is not the spoken stage, it is opera, and we all know things are wildly different in this world. That's why there's a difference. Of course, there's also the fact that like onstage nudity or unnecessary violence, more often than not, it's a cheap and uninspired gimmick and the lazy way out of putting meaning into a scene.

Too many theatre directors working in opera are or become self-indulgent and, instead of realizing the world in which they've chosen to inhabit, one filled with its own traditions, foibles, blessings and curses, imagine they are, instead at DV8 or La MaMa and working with beings whose bodies are trained for an entirely different kind of magic. We've seen and heard from directors how have even exhibited outright contempt for opera and its sometimes opera-sized singers. Of course there are elements that abound and abide in ALL theatre, which at its heart is nothing more than storytelling, but the manner in which those stories are told differ as widely - and as wildly - as the very art forms by which they're being told and defined by, be it ballet, opera, puppetry, Noh, Kabuki, or African dance.

Parsifal - BayerischeStaatsoper München
The traditions of every type of theatre must be respected and honored. We often witness that respect in every type of theatre, but, increasingly, in the opera house, we see less and less of it, despite the platitudes we may hear from directors who may say otherwise. Too many times I've heard a director say "I embrace the challenge of working with the diverse world of opera, it's vastness, the various shapes and sizes of its singers and history of traditions," only to see the final result being singers awkwardly shoe-horned into costumes and productions they are uncomfortable with and unnatural in.

There are those who will misread what I've written as a diatribe against regietheatre, when nothing could be further from the truth. What I'm against is bad regie, just as I'm against bad traditional productions which do nothing but present works as museum pieces, works that have earned their status as repertory pieces and deserve far more than to be preserved in mothballs.

Romanian Train Wreck

NOTE: I had not yet received the book when I created the following post. I realize I will never finish this book - it's not worth the the limited time allotted me. Nothing read, however, would appear to change what I put down below. gpp)

I have not yet read the book, but I do love me a good tale of delusion by an old-fashioned diva the likes of which we just don't get in the "real" world of music where diva defined the art: Opera.

In the October issue of "Opera News' Matthew Sigman reviews Angela Gheorghiu's memoirs: "A Life for Art," and I nearly fell off of my seat, as he tears into it - and the singer - with a delicious, devilish delight.

"After reading 'A Life for Art,' it will become painfully difficult to hear Gheorghiu's rapturous voice without hearing the human being behind it. Vain, trite, repetitive,, opportunistic, lacking insight and empathy . . .a self-indulgent tour de force that shatters any illusion of frailty, bravery or sensuality this gifted artist might hope to convey onstage. . . . deeply selfish . . . Solti weeps upon hearing her voice! Meryl Streep drops to her knees! Insults . . . meddles . . . loves seeing herself on film and shows gratitude to one one. So comically over-the-top . . . it borders on masterpiece. (it) could well be the standard by which narcissistic diva memoirs will be judged. Sadly, its author might consider that a compliment"

I generally steer clear from poison pen style posts, but this soprano - as much as I've loved her voice - has irked me almost from the beginning of her international career. Her self-indulgence is legendary. A critic friend (who adores her) was in Paris to interview her and she kept him waiting for hours in the hotel lobby. A maid or one of her assistants finally appearing to alert him that madame would be there shortly, but "in make-up." He couldn't resist adding the punch line, "all for a radio interview."

I can't wait to read this!

(Additional note: I CAN wait to read this . . . but likely never will. gpp.)

Rockin' the Opera: A Traviata Memory

During the summer of 1996, I attended a performance of Verdi's La Traviata at Wolf Trap. I went because Traviata is a favorite opera of mine, and I'd previously seen this New York City Opera production, beautifully designed by Thierry Bosquet and sensitively directed by Renata Scotto. I was not expecting to be as moved by the experience as I was by Verdi's classic tear jerker and it became one of the most moving participatory experiences of my life to date.

The audience was the most non-traditional I'd ever been a part of . . . even for Wolf Trap. Hundreds of multi-colored, broadly knit skull caps, clothing made from hemp, men and women in swirled, tie-dyed cotton skirts over bare legs and feet, ponytails on the men (including moi), boys and girls with unkempt dreadlocks. The scent of weed and patchouli filled the air more than Channel No. 5. I half expected Jerry Garcia to make an appearance, and in some ways, he did by the sheer number of Deadheads present.

Also large in number which made my blood pumper swell with pride; a strong presence of headbangers donned in black on black, Metallica and Slayer tee-shirts, ripped up jeans, combat boots. I stood up and looked around, taking it all in and could not suppress an enormous shit eating grin. Scattered liberally throughout were plenty of older folk, comfortably sipping wine in their lawn chairs, and while some appeared a little nervous, most didn't seem to mind or notice. This was an audience I had dreamed of.

At intermission I excused myself from my friends, moved up the hill to speak with one a young man wearing a Metallica-shirt, but whose girlfriend was more "appropriately" attired for the opera. These young 20-somethings told me that though they often attended and listened to Wagner (his favorite was Tristan, hers, Lohengrin), they came for an opera "fix" and were being won over by the charm and potential heartbreak of this, their first Italian opera.

We ended up talking for a bit about Tristan and then the topic of the tee shirt came up: "Metallica" and all shared a good laugh about what could be, until recently, deemed an implausible situation: discussing heavy metal during the intermission of an Italian opera. He stated he always wears his Metallica tee to the opera, putting up with glares and stares, because usually "
someone finds me and strikes up a conversation" but at Wolf Trap don't feel out of place, and had already met quite a few interesting people before the opera even began. Tres cool.

Seconds after Violetta expired, as the house lights came up, the row of Deadheads in front of us rose immediately to their feet. My friend Kathy poked me in the arm pointed at them, smiling, all these kids were in tears, standing and cheering long before anyone else rose or a single curtain call had begun. Normally I'm loathed to stand (unless it's truly warranted) but Kathy and I stood in solidarity, nodding our heads, and smiling could taste my own salty tears. When the Violetta came (a then young, quite remarkable soprano from Ukraine) there was a roar more typical to a rock concert. I wouldn't have been surprised to see the gentle blaze of
cigarette lighters extended skywards. I was as moved by the reaction of this youthful mass as I was by the wonderful Violetta.

They may have been metalheads, punks and hippies, but they came because they wanted to experience real opera. That's exactly what they got.

On Singers and Size

I recently had a conversation with a friend on the appearance of opera singers, a conversation prompted by the idiotic remark of a currently popular singer who stated today's singers must be "beautiful and thin, and very fit . . ." Sorry, but I’m calling “bullshit."

Opera is art . . . storytelling on the grandest of scales and has precious little to do with reality. Weight has nothing to do with artistry nor one's ability to relate a story. Regardless of race, weight, body size, a good storyteller must do one thing: conjure a world of intrigue and fantasy that can draw an audience into believing his or her story. Most of us (I hope) have experienced one-man-shows where, with neither set nor costume, someone has pulled us in, and engaged us in a way where what surrounds us is altered completely until the lights come back up and we realize we've been on a remarkable journey. Those uncomfortable with body size that isn't (in their estimation) perfect simply lack imagination or any ability to accept the fact that people come in all sizes, shapes and colors. Over the years I've found it interesting that it isn’t necessarily younger audiences who have a difficult accepting opera-sized opera singers. If one has a problem with fat singers, don't go. It's really that simple. Conversely, I've seen far too many "sexy" singers who are lousy storytellers and who couldn't act their way out of the proverbial paper bag.

In 2010 attending the first Met HD “Aida” our local cineplex sold out several theatres. The one I watched in was filled mostly with Bowdoin college students fulfilling a class requirement, including a large segment of the football team. Violetta Urmana, Johan Botha, Dolora Zajick, and and Jennifer Check were among the plus-sized principals that day. None of the kids, most seeing their first opera, seemed to have any problem getting right into the story and cheering and responding to the goings-on of Verdi's tale taking place near and on the Nile. I was seated next to a couple of the football players and, as the intensity of Amneris’ Judgment Scene began, the one next to me leaned into his buddy and whispered, "Ah, this is my favorite part . . . where the Pharaoh chick loses her shit!” My heart exploded.

Yes, it’s nice to have beautiful gifted singers who can also act, but what’s most important to this opera lover are smart singers, a director both aware and sympathetic to his singers' needs and abilities, and a damned good conductor; the music and my imagination do all the rest of the work. I know, Weird, huh?

Killing Carmen: Thoughts on a Classic

I’m lucky. It has never been a requirement of mine that I like or even particularly admire anyone in order to find them fascinating enough to want to watch or read about. This is true of fictional as well as historical (or even currently alive) persons.

I think somehow many of us feel “guilty” for watching things like Carmen because we’re preoccupying ourselves with a central character possessing so little, if anything, perceived as redeemable. But, Carmen is an eternally interesting character, so, as with many colorful criminals or outcasts of society, we may become fascinated . . . even mesmerized, by the way they work in lives vastly different from our own.

As with any stage creature, Carmen opens herself to a wide variety of interpretations, and while many view her as being an archetypal character (in the Jungian sense), I don’t think she is. Not at all, in fact.  I believe in Carmen less as a symbol, and more as genuinely, deeply flawed character living her days according to her own set of principles, the rest of the world be damned. While she may come across as over-the-top, nothing she does, according those principles, is ever really too much so as to make her the comically unbelievable character many see her as. Still, all of the symbolsim we typically associate with the archetype of such a character can actually add to our enjoyment, even when we don't fully grasp it, or disagree with one another as to what it all means.

When first we meet our Carmencita, she’s working at the cigarette factory, and we like her.  We like her mostly because she's colorful, and likes to sing and dance a lot. But, ah, she also likes to fight. She's what some might call a spicy lady.  While she may seem like a girl who just gets into the occasional bit of trouble, the fact of the matter is this:  from the outset, Carmen is criminal.  

The most famous number in the opera, the Habanera is simply Carmen taking in the lay of the land, scoping out a possible escape from the trouble she's already planned on getting into. She can't help herself.  As she sings and mesmerizes the crowd, she identifies Jose as someone she can use; a man to trick and manipulate into doing whatever it is she needs him to do. And likely do it most willingly.  Does she sense his weakness? His criminal past? Ever shrewdly attuned to all that is around her, Carmen senses this from the very beginning.  It's not too far a stretch for us to believe she'd use the factory fight to this end, and so it becomes a preliminary exercise in gaining Jose's assistance for her subsequent escape from a situation of her own creation.  It's all part of her game, and quite possibly a test to see how strongly her hold will be on this deeply troubled man, using the military to escape his own murderous past.

I'm convinced Carmen always looks ahead to the future and always foresees trouble there. Of course she does . . . it's almost all she knows.  

I've never bought into Carmen being as carefree as she pretends to be, or always singing about. There are reasons she consults and holds stock in the tarot.  She is bound by fate, and ever aware of that fact.  I believe that those who believe in the romance between Jose and Carmen are buying into something that just isn’t there and thus, not unlike Jose, seduced by something unattainable on either of their parts.  

Like so many criminals, Carmen appears to be an adrenaline junky, always and obsessively moving on to bigger things, bigger risks and highs to feed and satisfy her addiction. The adrenaline rush which comes from criminal activity can certainly be experienced by other means, for example, extreme athletics . . . risk-taking activities such as cliff diving, or parachuting and, of course, sex.  Adrenaline junkies are forever looking for that rush, so are ever pushing themselves further and further, often right to the point of their demise.  The ultimate rush.  I hold this is precisely what happens to Bizet's anti-heroine.

Now, Carmen’s attraction to Escamillo is something entirely different.  I believe it is an instant one because here, for lack of a better word, is an Übermensch; a man who, advantaged through superior intelligence and artificial weaponry plays a game involving fighting to the death another physically powerful animal – a male from another species. Escamillo is a creature who, like Carmen, appears to have no natural fear of death, he challenges it . . . and wins. In this regard, as exciting as it sounds, winning the bullfight would seem to be only the penultimate orgasmic experience, the ultimate rush achieved only through death itself.

Carmen, is the same, and we can look at her actions her self-orchestrateing her orgasme final and, for whatever reasons, has chosen Jose as her executioner. By taunting and humiliating him, she increases the element of danger and violence to a point where, physically and psychologically, they have arrived arrive at the blistering point of no return.  Now there is nothing left for her to do other than that which she set out to, very likely from the start.  

 That Carmen often uses sex to get everything she “wants” is, at minimum, symbolically interesting, not to mention more than just a bit disturbing. One needs only consider how her demise is achieved by: (a) the violent plunging of a dagger into her; and (b) outside of the bull (i.e., masculine) arena.

Carmen never asks to be liked, but, like a beautiful, poisonous spider, she lures us into her web, making us think she may have something pretty to offer. She doesn’t. That appearance, much like the music Bizet gives her, is all façade. What she really offers is a bloody, violent, unromantic, and ultimately irredeemable, look into our own baser nature which, while perhaps not pretty, is endlessly fascinating.

(Photos: Kate Aldrich as Carmen/Jonas Kaufmann and Richard Troxell as Jose).

Fierrabras: Say Goodnight, Franz.

Schubert's Fierrabras has long been poked fun at, considered musically uninteresting, unstageable and given every other imaginable excuse for rarely being produced. Needless to say, I was thrilled to receive the new DVD set starring Jonas Kaufmann. I can honestly say rarely have I been more let down by a production. Musically, it is terrific, but what I had to endure watching was dull, insipid and so over-directed I decided then and there to never warch this again.


Claus Guth's production occurs entirely in a pink-striped drawing room surrounded by 30+ doors, the only scenery, a riduclously oversized chair and piano, the dimensions of which are about 15 feet high with the lid open, and which occupies half of the stage. Seated at the piano is a chubby, diminutive actor miming Schubert, seated in a 4 foot tall high chair, working on (presumably) the score. Awesome. The Schubert Clone looks like James Levine doing a bad Jackie Mason imitation, and seems to have been directed throughout to look "nervous" - his mouth, more often than not, opened in the manner of an inflatable sex doll. It's both annoying and ghastly.

Dialogue is taken away from the characters and given to him, allowing us to hear him shrieking each and every syllable as if in audition for Volker Schlöndorff's "The Tin Drum." His major action is about the stage, handing singers freshly written music and, before they run out of notes, posing their limbs, heads, etc. as if mannequins, into gestures he finds heroic or tragic. The opera has been reduced to a single concept: Schubert staging this misguided pageant in the home of a patron, the characters garbed in the formal wear of the day. Schubert, identifying himself with all three of the heroes means, of course, Roland, Eginhard and Fierrabras are all costumed identically to the composer, right down to his little spectacles. When the four are grouped together, all I could think, "early 19th century boyband."

For the second act, the piano has been to one corner and, of course, tipped over. The men now sport breastplates and wield instead of shields, miniature evergreens. Genius. At the French front Schubert runs about the stage, opening doors to reveal the soldiers; men in suits, and wearing either a Fez or some sort of tiny helmet. To rally his troops, Eginhard pulls out a child's toy horn and blows. The moment is neither cute nor is it heroic.

Whenever a scene ends the stage empties, as Schubert wanders its width, open-mouthed (I swear I saw drool pooling in close ups) more and more bemused and confused than the last time. It's actually ugly and difficult to watch.

Fierrabras' glorious finale is ruined as we spy a prone Schubert atop of piano, feverishly completing the score, and racing to hand copies of it (he did his own copying?) to the chorus and soloists, then arrange them into concert formation as they sight read it, never taking their eyes from the music in their hands.

I can't begin to describe how angry I got watching this. Musically, Fierrabras remains the treasure trove of gorgeous melodies, solos, ensembles, choruses, military music, etc. that I fell in love with years ago, but I felt this a missed opportunity to surprise those who felt Schubert's only worth is to be found in his songs or symphonies. Schubert's symphonic style actually works brilliantly in the work's extended pieces, where solo moves into ensemble with consummate craftsmanship. the aria cum duet for Eginhard and Emma "Der Abend Sinkt Auf Stiller Flur" which morphs from an aria into a duet for Eginhard and Emma, is simply one the most beautiful things Schubert ever wrote.

I'm simply too exhausted . . . and angry from the watching this to go on about the singing other than to say, from top-to-bottom, it is well cast, everyone seguing from dialogue through song splendidly, notably soprano Twyla Robinson's in the most exciting performance of the evening. Kaufmann is predictably excellent (though it is a rather short role) Juliane Banse sounds dark and wild as Emma (reminding me of Mattila in the role some 15-20 years ago) and Laszlo Polgar shows he still has it all in spades. Franz Welser-Most has the Zurich forces working magic and the score really makes a strong case for the opera. If only the staging did.

What should have looked like this:




Instead looks like this:

Don Carlos: As It Should Be (mostly)

Verdi: Don Carlos
Theatre du Chatelet
Antonio Pappano, Conductor/Luc Bondy, Director
Roberto Alagna, Karita Mattila, Jose van Dam, Thomas Hampson, Waltraud Meier

Pappano leads an almost achingly beautiful effort from his soloists and the Chatelet orchestra and chorus. Perhaps my favorite Verdi opera, this is also regarded as one of his most unusual and problematic scores - often sounding simultaneously traditional yet somehow remarkably modern for its time. Pappano brings out all of these elements and his pacing of the entire long evening is beautiful, near perfection never once feeling either dragged out or rushed.

I've had ups and downs in my listening experiences with Roberto Alagna, but here, vocally and dramatically he perfectly captures every nuance, and every heartbreaking weakness of this character, taking a weak, problematic "starring role" and somehow turning him into Hamlet. It doesn't hurt that he is in astonishingly beautiful voice, his tone ringing and with a remarkable sheen. His ability to shade the voice in a variety of colors and dynamics made this an uniquely individual portrayal. He is not the "hero" Don Carlos some old-timers may wish for, but I hold this role to be almost the antithesis of heroic.

The production is simple effectively emphasizing the story telling and Verdi's music. Clearly well rehearsed, Luc Bondy's production has not a false note throughout its considerable length, every detail, every movement flowing with a rare and natural ease. In Gilles Aillaud's sets, Moidele Bickel's costumes and Vincio Cheli's beautiful lighting, every frame looks like a Murillo or El Greco masterpiece coming to life. Two particularly arresting images stand out in the St. Just scene; the first, just before the the entrance of Philip and Elisabeth - Carlos accepts Posa's request to return with him to Flanders, as Carlos kneels, Posa rests his head Carlos's shoulder. The second such moment follows the King and Queen's procession; Carlos extends his right arm out towards the now offstage couple as Posa grabs his other arm preventing his friend from following; creating a canvas of tortured angles: all arms, necks, heads, legs, backs, walls and shadows - all transformed into a tragic tableau of pain and comfort rejected.

The Fontainebleau scene (the opening cut a bit) is remarkably done and should convince any naysayers that it must be included to make the rest of this difficult work make true sense. In a barren forest of white birch, Carlos and Elisabeth draped in deep crimson, become as a single heart beating in this forest of death. Karita Mattila brings a dramatic quality that I've never before encountered in this role; at first coltish, tom-boyish, as Carlos lights the fire in the woods. Then, as he mentions that she will marry the son of Philip, becoming girlishly nervous. In only a few moments she establishes a bewitching and compelling character. In true princess manner, this Elisabeth is slightly vague yet clear she is smitten by and flirts with Carlos, her outward strength a facade - clearly a girl raised at court, aware she is but a pawn and dutifully plays the part she's given. At the news Elisabeth is to marry Philip instead of Carlos , the young lovers are crushed as the chorus, in ghostly white, enters singing her praises, lifting her into the air, placing her on a white horse and led away, knowing she is not leaving behind not only home and family, but any dream or hope of happiness as all turn away from Carlos who, alone, falls onto a rock, utterly destroyed. "Destiny has shattered my dreams." Having seen the Fontainebleau scene scene so staged I can't imagine its being left out of any production again.

Throughout this production Bondy and Pappano have encouraged their singers to live these roles and the electricity between all of the characters is stunning. Here is a theatre director who understands opera, and makes enormous use of music's ability to expand emotions in a unique way. Another example of his vision is the sheer physicality of the scene between Carlos and Elisabeth outside of the convent which takes on a desperate, violent quality that is, to say the least, startling to experience in an opera house.

As Rodrigue, Thomas Hampson gives what one of the best performances of his career. Combining humility, loyalty, compassion, pride and a sense of justice, his Posa is remarkably complex, and by far one of the most interesting good guys in all of Verdi. The voice is never big, but rich, well controlled and his sense of phrasing and attention to detail nothing short of remarkable. He also has a wicked good trill. At times, especially in his big scene with Philip, Hampson's voice seems to take on a tenorial quality - a remarkably lyrical Rodrigue, but with a sure sense of strength of purpose.

Mr. Van Dam's Philip is firm of tone, every word distinct, filled with meaning. The role, at times lies a bit low for him, but for the most part fits him like the proverbial glove. I have always want to despise Philip, but Bondy and Van Dam have made him more pathetic, a mere pawn of the Inquisitor, and Van Dam pulls off this vulnerability without once
sacrificing the strength of his character. A most complex, interesting characterization.

Waltraut Meier couldn't have been anybody's idea of an ideal Eboli, yet, she inhabits the character so fully turns in a magnificent performance, and looks damned stunning in doing so. Her vocalism in the Veil Song was kind of bizarre - it had a "warble" like quality that made it difficult to tell just what pitch she was actually on, yet she was beguiling and pulled it off. Once that was out of the way, everything else came from strength. I do wish that this mezzo would cultivate some chest voice. Her low notes seem to be her weakest and they sound exactly (except nearly inaudible) as her middle voice.

As Elisabeth, Mattila is, quite simply, a wonder. A voice capable of so many colors while retaining a unifying, individual sound. Having previously heard her in so much of her native music and Mozart, it's a tough voice to categorize, capable of riding the orchestra and cutting through it with laser like clarity, yet retaining a youthful sweetness most unusual to the typically "steely" type of voice we associate with that type of singing. Her sustained, high piano singing is nearly miraculous, a thin thread of sound perfectly placed, as clean as can be imagined then producing an effect that sounds as sensuous as silm gauze feels (two examples: her farewell to her lady-in-waiting, and reminding Carlos she is now his mother). It's all sung piano, yet she makes these moments sound entirely different. This is singing rare and refined. And remarkable. Every movement, gesture and sound came directly from this Elisabeth straight into my heart.


With the least amount of stage time, Eric Halfvarson's twisted, crippled Grand Inquisitor truly becomes a dominant central figure; the very physical embodiment of evil setting a tale of corruption, politics and religion already near chaos and spinning it completely out of control.

Nearly every scene in this long work is filled with heartbreaking magic and beauty, making it difficult to single out one scene in particular as standing out from the rest, though Posa's death perhaps takes place of honor in an evening filled with memorable music making and drama.

As one would imagine, the Chatelet audience responds with a thunderous and extended ovation, making me wish, even more, I'd been there.

Magda the Magnificent. A Tribute to Magda Olivero

Like some of my favorite singers I've only heard on recordings, Magda Olivero, is one of those singers whose name alone can light up my
face. People ask where are singers like her today, and I suppose the simplest fact is that they simply don't exist. The fact is they barely existed in their own day. When someone complains "There's no Tebaldi today" they are, of course, right, but there was only ever ONE Tebaldi and she (like Callas, like Gencer, and Rysanek . . . ) are ALL sui generis. The world we live in has changed and so, necessarily, has the way we have to live in it. There was, and only ever will be, one Oliver, and how very lucky we were to have had her.

While lovers of conventionally pretty voice may not appreciate what she brought to the table, that is their great loss. Olivero was not just another singer, but an exceptional musician. For sheer diversity of the styles and types of roles she undertook I can think of few singers who can match her.


Of course, what else would one expect from a singer whose professional debut was as Mary Magdalene in Nino Cattozzo's wildly popular 'I Misteri Dolorosi" (kidding about the popular part). She was only 22, but the odd roles kept coming her way: Parodi's "Cleopatra" - Barbieri's "Alcassino e Nicoletta" - Rossellin's "La Guerra" - Carvalho's "Penelope" - the Rome premiere of Poulenc's "Dialogues of the Carmelites", an opera she would sing throughout much of her career, and in a variety of roles, - Langella's "Assunta Spina" - Gentilucci's "Don Ciccio." Quite simply just the names of these works make my ears prick up making me long for an era when there was a lot more going on in the major houses than standard rep and - hailed or failed - new works were prolific and singers such as Olivero singing as many of them as she could.



Magda was singing Monteverdi back when his works, as was most of the baroque repertoire, barely known to most opera lovers. She sang not only Poppea, but also in productions of the madrigal operas "Il Combattimento" and "Ballo delle Ingrate." In addition to her work in baroque music, Olivero frequently was singing music of her own time, by composers both known and (now, sadly) forgotten; Menotti, Wolf-Ferrari, Costagutta, Giordano, Mangiagalli, Honegger, Zandonai, to name but a few.

She clearly adored the music of often maligned Alfano appearing in four of his operas. "Cyrano Di Bergerac", "La Leggenda di Sakuntala," "Risurrezione," and "L'Ultimo Lord." "Sakuntala" found Olivero in both the title role and, nearer the end of the career, one of Sakuntala's maids. What I would have give to hear her in the title role of this beautiful (and rarely performed) opera. I think we can get some idea of it from her live recording of Katiusha in "Risurrezione," where she is simply remarkable - hair raising and heartbreaking.

Even Olivero's standard repertoire roles shows a wild diversity: Elsa, Poppea, both Manons, Gilda, Butterfly, Marguerites by Boito & Gounod, Violetta, Mimi, Zerlina, Nanetta, Liu, Maria in Mazzepa, Adriana, Minnie, all 3 Trittico heroines, La Voix Humaine . . . the list goes on. The very notion of Olivero as "That Brabant Girl" shivers me timbers.

While sung in Italian, snippets of her Manon reveals a voice most perfectly suited to Massenet's heroine, and imagining what her Manon must have been like in the theatre sends me into a swoon, which is a state I'd imagine those lucky to have experienced her in it were sent into.

Where would we be without amazing artists who gave their all, as did Madame Olivero? Or their legacies and the contribution and continuation of our beloved the lyric art? How fortunate we are to never have to find out.

Thank you, bless you and may you rest in peace, dear, great lady.

Stephen Fry: Wagner and Me

Somehow this film, approaching four years old, has evaded me until only a few days ago and I've now watched it twice. The BBC produced documentary finds Stephen Fry, an ardent fan of the music dramas of Richard Wagner, exploring Wagner's world while wrestling with his own Jewishness and the composer's anti-Semitism.

Fry's personality will always be a bit much for some (personally, I've always loved the guy) and he's prone towards a type of childish over-exuberance that puts some off, but he is sincere, earnest and (for folks like me) an engaging part of the film, making me recall my "falling in love with Wagner" experiences of my own youth. (The overture to Rienzi, then Parsifal - which I understood not a word of but nonetheless grabbed me by the heart and has never let go in the ensuing 40+ years.)

Fry gives short biographical analyses as he retraces some of Wagner's steps through Lake Lucerne, Geneva, St. Petersburg, and opens and closes the film at Bayreuth, first during rehearsals and ultimately entering the Festpielhaus for his first Bayreuth performance. In between he explores the music, speaking with Wagner scholars and historians, a Jewish cellist who survived Auschwitz, Valery Gergiev, a clearly irritated Eva Wagner (whose German coolness can barely tolerate Fry's exuberance), costumers, and others, (all too briefly), with each shedding their own light on the myriad aspects of Wagner's creative genius and his role within and without music.


His schoolboy enthusiasm may irritate some as in a constant of awe, he reveres a doorknob, Wagner's chair, boxes of wigs, costumes and props, but again, there is an earnestness here that I found endearing . . . and amusing.

The most satisfying musical "bit" explores Tristan und Isolde, as, with Fry, we wander into into the villa Wahnfried, catching Stefan Mickisch playing the snippets of the Liebesnacht and Liebestod on Wagner's own Steinway. whilst explaining the nature of a certain chord. (Guess!)  As Mickmisch plays, the scene intertwines with a live performance of Robert Dean Smith and Irene Theorin, looking more like Richard and Pat Nixon than the legendary Irish Princess and her consort. During the final pages of the Liebestod we weave back and forth between an ecstatic Fry and his pianist friend, and Theorin's Isolde, creating a magically, satisfying effect. For me, it's the best part of the film and a wonderful, almost cathartic moment.

Since watching I've had several discussions with friends who I was, frankly surprised by, as not only didn't they share my enthusiasm, or were moved as I was, but actually deplored the movie. There were complaints claiming it "too vapid" and how it didn't go deep enough into Wagner's life and creative process. I won no points by countering them with the fact the name of the film is Wagner and Me . . . not Wagner and You or . . . Exploring the Creative Genius of Richard Wagner, etc. It is an appropriately titled documentary of one man sharing his deeply personal journey, and as such, it succeeds marvelously.

If you like Stephen Fry and love Wagner (as I do), and haven't yet seen this, I give it a hearty and heartfelt recommendation. If you (as do many) find his outsized personality and brand of ego irritating, you may want to give it a pass, as several friends wished they had. For me? It's a winner. 

Composer Rivalries: Menotti v. Stravinsky

Of course we all know the Salieri/Mozart feud (both alleged and real), but they weren't alone.

I recall in college reading an interview with Menotti, and his making some disparaging remark about Stravinsky . . . something along the lines of "not knowing what to do with the key of C." Despite my great love of all things Stravinsky, I found the remark humorous, though slightly bitchy on Menotti's part.

Years later, I read more of some supposed rivalry between the two composers.

In his book, Stravinsky, Inside Out, Charles M. Joseph tells of how Stravinsky was jealous of Menotti's celebrity due to his popular operas on radio, television and Broadway. Stravinsky figured he'd also have a go at it, and of course, created The Flood for television. Later, he thought he'd also take Menotti's model of producing opera on Broadway and bring The Rake's Progress to the Great White Way.

Rouben Ten-Arturunian (designer for The Flood) approached Igor, suggesting he forgo producing Rake on Broadway, scrap the Metropolitan Opera's production (which had only seen five performances in the house its premiere season, and two the following) and allow Menotti to re-design and direct it for the Metropolitan Opera. (One of Menotti's biographers incorrectly asserts Menotti did have a hand in the Met's production, though nothing in the Met's annals suggests such a thing actually occurred).

That notion sent Stravinsky into a tailspin of rage, and, incensed he wrote a letter to Ten-Arturunian stating he'd rather not have his opera staged there at all, much less have Menotti put it, "especially if it played between Lulu and some jazz-integratationist rubbish." Youza!

So, it isn't just the performers who can snipe at each other.

p.

New Opera Discovery (Parody)

17 September 2008
United Press International
Mozambique

A previously unknown manuscript by the American composer John Cage was discovered Tuesday morning at the Biblioteca Nacional de Mocambique. During a routine maintenance check in the facility’s basement, a shelf was discovered to have broken spilling the contents of a small box onto the floor. The contents were picked up by Biblioteca employee Xavier Jamis a custodian at the main facility. Mr. Jamis gathered the papers together and brought them to the attention of Biblioteca Nacional de Mocambique’s General Director, Cabo Delagado, the country’s most respected scholar of late 20th century American serialism. Although no name was initially found with the manuscript, Director Delagado recognized immediately the handwriting as that of Mr. Cage and alerted the press as to the remarkable findings by the library’s janitor.

A quick perusal of the manuscript revealed the work to be in a genre rarely approached by Mr. Cage: an opera. Titled “The Bee” it is based on an unpublished screenplay of the same name by little known science fiction/horror author, Ahdam Baum a one-time resident of Mozambique of unknown extraction.

The Bee is set in the 1950’s and centers on the relationship between the beautiful young mystery writer, Armonia Mundi and her paramour, scientist and genius, Barry Bumble - youngest recipient of the Prix du Einstein. In a coincidence eerily relevant to one occurring today, Bumble foresees the major – and unexplained – world wide disappearance of communities of honey bees in the 21st century the results of which are both far reaching and disastrous.

Questioned by his lover as how he could possibly predict such an event with such certainty, Bumble reveals his long hidden secret project: a time traveling beehive. To convince her, of the future’s horros, Bumble tricks Mundi into ingesting the very special honey from the bees of this particular hive. The effect of the honey causes the couple to shink – painfully and slowly, their bodies contract and ooze until they “evolve” into bees themselves. The first act ends as the couple – borne on a prism from a window hanging crystal, enter Vall-Hiva.

The ensuing two acts find the couple time traveling between the mid 20th early 21st centuries in a desperate attempt to discover the cause of the nature bee disappearances. Is it borne of nature? Of man? During one of their time travels Bumble becomes stuck in the honey and unable to morph into his human body, becoming, in essence, an enormous bee. Neither entirely man, nor entirely insect, he dubs his new self: “Bumblebee.”

The work shows Cage in an unusually lyrical mode, his expansive orchestration calling for, in addition to a normal-sized symphonic orchestra, a battery of 16 prepared pianos, eight tape recording machines, a high school marching band,
boy choir and two ondes martinots and Theramin.

In an unprecedented move Mozambique’s national opera company, Opera l’Mozambique Nacionale, will be presenting the world premiere of The Bee in a season devoted entirely to operas about wildlife; Janacek’s The Cunning Little
Vixen; Tobias Picker’s “Fantastic Mr. Fox”; Stravinsky’s delightful “Le Rossignol” provides the meat to a sandwich of one acts, bookended by Jorge Martin’s “Tobermory” and “Sredni Vashtar.” The season ends with a controversial new staging of Puccini’s Madama Butterfly by famed zoologist Joan Embrey of the San Diego Zoo, making her directorial debut.

Noticeably missing from the announced repertoire is the recent opera “The Fly” by Howard Shore. Hearing about this season of unusually themed operas in a venue far removed from the operatic centres of the world, Mr. Shore and the
director of the world premiere of his opera, David Cronenberg offered to bring the production to Mozambique at no cost to the company. When asked why he declined, Opera l’Mozambique’s Artistic Director, Mbuzini Maccccccccccccaco responded“Both as a nation – and as a budding artistic venture, we are poor, struggling and still learning. Even so, we are neither that desperate nor are we idiots.”

Met's Stunning Parsifal in HD

This was simply (or, perhaps not so simply) one of the most amazing performances I've experienced of Parsifal, which is, of course, my very favorite opera. The new production is stunning, the hand-picked cast superb, each character caught up completely in the drama. I was only mildly concerned for my seatmates who'd never before seen Parsifal (though familiar with it from recordings). I needn't have worried for they were, as I was, blown away by all we saw and all we heard. During the intermissions  found myself chatting with the chap sitting on my other side, a longtime Met goer since his army days and being on leave in New York, yet had never managed to see it before. At the end, I asked, "So, how was your first Parsifal?" With tears streaming down his face, all he could manage was a faint,"I'm undone. Completely." Two complete strangers sharing the same experience and having the same reaction. Wagner can do that to us.

Musically, Gatti had the score so firmly in hand, and under him the Met Orchestra responded splendidly through every inch and measure of this amazing score. His nuanced, non-rushed reading glimmered in all the right places; the transformation music of the outer acts truly was transforming, the pulse (and pace) in Act II's opening, actually dangerous sounding ... chilling, as it should be. The Met Chorus, as ever, was superb, the multiple choir effects of the different levels of sound Wagner indicates coming through incredibly throughout the cinema's sound system.

Rene Pape's Gurnamenz is one that stands alongside the very best, his face registering so many emotions it was almost unbearably beautiful at times. During the first Grail ceremony, where Wagner finally gives him a vocal rest, his acting alone made every gesture, every movement and glance, genuinely felt. As he stared at Parsifal, Pape's eyes and even his mouth, registered a look of one who barely dared to hope that this young man could be "The One." As is always the case with this elegant singer, his way with the text remained a miracle.  In the Good Friday scene, just the simple way he uttered the phrase "Nun freut sich alle Kreatur" took my breath away, revealing a dignified rapture . . . a genuine rejoicing of nature and the meaning of this holiest of days. 

Jonas Kaufmann with his medium-sized tenor, gave a performance that captured the youthful casualness of the Innocent Fool, throughout the first act. He places the voice just right to be heard even softly, yet was fully capable in Act II of opening up for "Amfortas! Die Wunde!" With a sound that grows increasingly through its pain, his Parsifal finally comprehends . . . discovers what his purpose must now be, and ends that great monologue. with his desperate cry: "Erlöser! Heiland! Herr der Huld! Wie büss ich Sünder meine Schuld?" The intensity Kaufmann exhibited from this point onward was tremendous in every way. This really was Parsifal.

I enjoyed the interview with Peter Mattei, who spoke about people (like me) wondering something along the lines of, "Amfortas? You?" Haha! As it stands, Mattei, who we have grown to love in Mozart, Rossini, Tchaikovsky gave one of the most riveting, painfully beautiful accounts of the role I've seen or heard, his great narrative in Act I, heartbreaking. The integration between singer and role was perfection. What a glorious gift - and surprise this debut was. 

Evgeny Nikitin was as spooky and commanding a Klingsor as one could hope for. Malevolence, like blood, literally dripping from him as he made wild gestures and seemed to be uttering dark-god incantations.  This was a far cry from previous Klingsors in my experience, who were no more threatening than Uncle Fester, bald and sexless.  There was a verility still on display and again, that malevolence manifested itself in voice and deed and was not only palpable, it was terrifying.

Katarina Dalayman clearly knows the essence of Kundry down to her toes and her three (well, four) appearances captured every nuance of this eternally tortured woman. Girard took full advantage of his staging and whereas most Kundrys have been around for centuries, his has her having existed for millennia. The chemistry between Dalayman and Nikitin, Dalaymand and Kaufmann, Dalayman and Pape here made one of Wagner's most fascinating creatures even more so.

In the penultimate scene, we witness the spring in the dry, scorched topography coming back to life as water again flows with life, the perfect segue to the finale.  Entirely unique, Girard makes the entirety of the scene uniquely special, and, for me, the most overwhelming since Wieland Wagner's.  We watch Amfortas' healing, almost still in disbelief, and feel the awe and wonder of Gurnemanz, whose tested accepts his new King, were infinitely moving. Then, there is Kundry. Taking her rightful place in the final ceremony, and uniting with Parsifal the Grail and Spear, she is finally redeemed and allowed to die.  How much more satisfying this was rather than decades old trend of having her live on. The lady's tired, let her rest, already! . 

Francois Girard's production was a most remarkable achievement, along with Maestro Gatti and the company achieving a true realization of gesamtkunstwerk the likes of which I've rarely seen at this level. Even in this barren post-apocalyptic wasteland, there was a genuine, if raw, beauty about it all. The choreographed movements of the Flower Maidens - like Ninja roses from Hell, will (along with everything else I saw and heard) be burned, forever in my mind. Literally, unforgettable. Wagner's score has my eyes moist, and a lump in my throat from the opening notes of the Vorspiel to the curtain's final fall and today's performance - visually and sonically was no exception.

While I used not to be a fan of Barbara Willis Sweet, her work for the Met has not only improved, her video direction for today's performance sets the benchmark for how it should be done.  There were blessedly few long, intrusive close-ups, and instead she chose to capture the stage either in its entirety, or large portions of it. I didn't miss seeing long stretches of singers' dental work or nose hair.  Not one iota.

Our theatre was not only packed, it seemed there were no defectors, with everyone remaining, cheering, bravoing and applauding until long after the final credits had faded.

I shall not forget this afternoon and the exemplary work the Met gave us from start to finish. I'm on a high right now that is going to stick around for days. I look forward to a (hopeful) release of this performance on Blu-ray, to experience this slice of Wagnerian heaven again . . . and again.

Considering Kundry (Opera's Most Fascinating Character)

Years ago my feathers got ruffled when I read an article arguing Kundry leaves an insignificant impact in Wagner's Parsifal. He stated incorrectly Kundry's only lines are in Act 2 "and even then limited," and suggested it doesn't even matter WHO sings Kundry, and expressed wonder as to why any singer with a major career would take on this unrewarding role.

Of course, Kundry being one of the characters I find the most fascinating in the world of opera, I nearly fell from my chair and responded with my having heard seen and/or heard (live or on recording) Kundry sung by the likes of Maria Callas, Christa Ludwig, Martha Modl, Jessye Norman, Tatiana Troyanos, Angela Denoke, Catherine Malfitano, Waltraut Meier, Renata Scotto, Rita Gorr, Leonie Rysanek, Irene Dalis, Violetta Urmana, Regine Crespin, Linda Watson, Katarina Dalayman, Petra Lang, Eva Randova, Yvonne Minton, Michelle DeYoung, Anne Gjevang, Gillian Knight, Gwyneth Jones. Evidence enough of the role's power to attract a widely diverse roster of celebrated singers.

I can think of few characters more fascinating, more troubling, more perplexing and ultimately more touching, than Wagner's hybrid distillation of several of the Grail myths more interesting females. Wagner seems to have carved this fascinating creature from von Eschenbach, Chretien de Troyes, and God only knows who else. Von Eschenbach describes her as "a woman so talented that she spoke all languages: Latin, Heathen and French . . . familiar with both dialectic and geometry; and she haad also knowledge of astrononomy . . . (her) nickname the sorceress. Her mouth was not restrained for she could say quite enough (and) with it she dampened much joy." That's our gal! In each act Kundry seems not only transformed, but is transforming right before us! What a gift Wagner has given the singer of this role . and what a marvelous challenge!

In Act 1, we're presented with this mysterious, wild woman of dubious character, which in no way prepares us for the seductress we're introduced to in the second act. Even then, we continue to witness her pain and the torture she's endured throughout the entire act.

Many operatic characters have screams written into the score, but, for me, none is more chilling than the moans and screams of Kundry, because we're witnessing the ultimate horror; someone realizing they are still alive, when that is the last thing they want to be.

Kundry's second meeting with Parsifal is one of the most fascinating scenes in all of opera. Beginning with "Parsifal Weile!" what ensues is of such a complex nature that it rattles my mind, this even after spending a lifetime with these characters. Throughout, we see this tortured, conflicted and ultimately cursed woman, helplessly bound to continuing Klingsor's dirty deeds, yet now, touched by this innocent fool, she longs for salvation. When she comes clean revealing her thousand year old secrets, she has in a sense found another victim as we witness Parsifal's own confliction, and at the same time, the beginning of an understanding of his place in the world.

A most wordy guy, Wagner was seldom prone towards repeating a word, a practice more common in operas that precede his own, so when he does so, the effect is of such dramatic significance that we can almost hear the gears turning in his characters’ minds. With fever pitch intensity, we hear Parsifal cry out:

"Amfortas! - -
Die Wunde! - Die Wunde! -
Sie brennt in meinem Herzen.
Oh, Klage! Klage!
Furchtbare Klage!
Aus tiefstem Herzen schreit sie mir auf.
Oh! - Oh! -
Elender!
Jammervollster!
Die Wunde sah ich bluten, -
nun blutet sie in mir! -
Hier - hier!
Nein! Nein! Nicht die Wunde ist es.
Fliesse ihr Blut in Strömen dahin!
Hier! Hier im Herzen der Brand!

All of those repeated words present us with a device that, given the right singer, has the potential to shatter an audience as we witness before our eyes (and ears), the Innocent Fool in a profound epiphany of heartstricken terror, pain, realization, understanding, and most importantly of all, empathy.

Even as a child, I was drawn to, what my mother would call, "sad stories." I still am, and it's no wonder that my favorite operas are (I believe) amongst the saddest stories set to music: Parsifal, Wozzeck, Pelleas et Melisande, Don Carlos . . . (you get the idea). There's an ineffable sadness to Parsifal that may be the cause of why it alienates so many operalovers. That quality of sadness, instead of pretending pain or ugliness away, instead embraces and reveals along with it . . . everything: not merely joy and good times, which we reflect on in happier states, but all. Alles. I’ve spoken with a number of others who like me, easily declare Parsifal to be their favorite (or one of their favorite) operas, and Kundry to be one of their favorite characters. It truly is one of those "love it/hate it" operas."

My favorite line in the entirety of the world of opera is uttered neither by the title character, nor Kundry, but rather Gurnemanz who, during their journey to the Grail Temple responds to Parsifal’s notice having barely trod, yet seems already to have traveled far, utters:

Du siehst, mein Sohn, zum Raum wird hier die Zeit.
(You see, my son, here space becomes time)

For me, this magical bit of metaphysics applies not only to the journey at hand, but to the entirety of the opera itself and the world in which its inhabitants find themselves, most pointedly to Kundry who for nearly a thousand years has restlessly roamed from realm-to-realm.

Though with only one twice repeated word (“Dienen”) to sing in Act 3, I believe Kundry makes as strong an impression in this act - or has the opportunity so to do - as any the other principals. To be effective the singer, even with only four notes, (and, of course, her entrance groan) must be felt from deep down beneath Kundry's skin. While Act II is where she shines vocally, Act III's two scenes are moving for each of the characters of the story(sans Klingsor). The ordinance of humility and Kundry’s baptism perfectly sets the stage for the second Grail Temple scene, with Wagner's sensational Transformation Music. Here transformation is an apt description not only for what we see occurring onstage, (the shifting from outdoor wilderness to indoor temple) but what we ourselves have witnessed of the characters who likewise have themselves transformed. I've always likened this moment to each having passed through the proverbial refiner's fire: The world weary, tortured Kundry finally finds her rest, the once haughty (and mildly intolerant) Gurnemanz is now the epitome of patience and humility, the hopelessly wounded Amfortas is finally healed, the once Innocent Fool has grown with wisdom and assumes his position as the new Grail King. In only his second Grail Temple experience, Parsifal has attained a level of understanding and awareness previously unimaginable, and the final words expressed by the chorus of Knights, children and the other participants in this moving moment of wonder could not be more profound: The redeemer is redeemed.

Many modern audiences (not me) have a problem with many newer productions having Kundry remain a live at the end, but my strongest preference is always to allow her to die. On the opposite end of the stick I know many who despise Wagner's stage direction "Kundry sinks silently to the ground" calling it a Victorian or puritanical "judgment." This train of thought I simply can’t agree with seeing it this way: release is what all Kundry has longed for (far long before we meet her). She's earned it, and Wagner's score, shimmering, shining and filled with the resolution of a long hoped for freedom, provides us with every indication her suffering is now at an end and Kundry is, at long last, finally at peace.

It remains amazing to me how Wagner's music ever matches this bizarre, complex bizzare twist of a tale with equal parts carnality, rage, torment and hope filling it with some of his most beguiling music. Yet, more amazing still is when I'm caught up in it, I often forget I'm even listening to music at all, such is the total effect that I feel almost as though I've entered someone else's reality. Wagner’s final work is so powerful even just writing, thinking, or talking about it can put tears in my eyes and make my blood run just a bit faster.

Enthüllet den Gral! Öffnet den Schrein!