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.

PORTopera's Tosca: One Sing-ular Sensation

On paper at least, Puccini’s Tosca seemed like an odd choice for an opera company to make its debut in the arena of “semi-staging” However, with imaginative use of space, intelligent (and detailed) direction, good costumes, a first rate orchestra, choruses and a cast of singers, the possibility exists of the experience being greater than the sum of its parts. Such was the case with PORTopera’s second go at Puccini’s classic potboiler.

With a 60+ piece orchestra taking pride of place on stage, only a narrow corridor of space toward the apron existed for the action to develop. A large wooden platform with a staircase leading to its top served, in the first act as the painter Mario Cavaradossi’s galley in Church of Sant’Andrea della Valle, (an enormous blank picture frame atop it), and in the second, as the parapet of the Castel St. Angelo for a changing of the guard, and the denouement of Tosca leaping to her death.

Challenged by the limited playing space, director, Dona D. Vaughn created an intimate Tosca that did not skimp on her customary excellence, her supernumeraries (scrub maid,, monk, Scarpia’s henchmen, et al.) enlivening and providing richly detailed action.

Vaughn wisely embraced, and enhanced, the comedic elements of the first act which came off with the lighthearted naturalness of musical comedy, particularly the marvelous work from Thomas Hammons' genuinely funny (and warmly curmudgeonly) Sacristan, the romantic interplay between Tosca and Mario, and the children’s entrance. The children's chorus was a delight and one could not help but smile as as the kids circled and danced around the old man. All of this worked, of course, to heighten the contrasting, darker, more chilling aspects of the tale and make them more deeply felt without the use of maudlin manipulation to which this opera frequently falls prey.

Adam Diegel, PORT’s excellent Pinkerton from several seasons ago, returned as an exuberant young Cavaradossi, his bright, enormously pingy tenor ringing out with amazing clarity over the orchestra. Despite Maestro Lord’s moving the score along, both of Mario’s arias elicited applause, particularly the tragic “E lucevan le stele,” which earned hearty cheers and bravos from the house, and his "Vittoria!" has rarely been more thrillingly sung in my lifetime.


Alexandra LoBianco made for a lovely, winning Tosca presenting a softer, more coquettish heroine than the sometimes jealous, woman-on-the-verge as she's so frequently presented. LoBianco offered a softer, more coquettish Tosca, a deliciously coy flirtatiousness tempering her jealous outbursts, making her vulnerable and her eventual harrowing predicament all the more wrenching. The first act duet with Mario garnered enough applause to nearly stop the action, and, I can state without hesitation, it's been many years since I've felt a certain "tingle" at the end of that scene.

Luxury casting was found in the Scarpia of James Morris, whose voice, while showing signs of age, has Scarpia imprinted all over it. I wasn't the only one who wondered why he, alone, was in a modern tuxedo (I'm imagining a minor costume controversy may have been involved here) but the fact is he could've been donned in overalls or pajamas and one still was going to believe THIS was Scarpia. The self-important piety with which he entered, literally stopped the show in St. Andrea's. Alternating between subtlety and villainy Morris created a Scarpia who one sensed always got his way, his man . . . and his woman. Until Tosca.

Mario's execution was made all the more gruesome by the addition of a coup de grâce, stopped at the last minute, the effect of which made the moment all the more chilling and, perhaps for the first time, made me wonder if the boy might actually get up and flee with Tosca. The ensuing moments of chaos worked beautifully (how nice to hear the vocal parts here, almost always eliminated by the Met and other companies) as Tosca is hunted and chased down before taking opera's most famous leap (LoBianco's "O Scarpia avanti a Dio" by the way, was positively thrilling).

Over thirty years after I (a then a chorister) sang a tour of Boheme with him, it was an absolute joy to see and hear Thomas Hammons as the Sacristan, still potent of voice and ever the actor. Robert Mellon (Angelotti), Lucas Levy (Spoletta), Josh Quinn (Sciarrone) and Carina Di Gianfilippo (The Shepherd) all offered splendid contributions to the evening's proceedings.

Maestro Stephen Lord's work with the PORT orchestra and choruses was exemplary, presenting Puccini's score as full-throttled and rousing as one could hope for, leading principals for whom he rarely hold to hold back or do much adjusting of volume for.

On paper, this may have read as a "semi-staged" production, but for a packed house at Merrill Auditorium, it was a Tosca for the ages.

Licia Albanese: A Small Tribute to a Legend

Licia Albanese has died. It was inevitable, yet still somehow unexpected, as though she would live forever. I had always been a moderate fan of this lady's, but some years ago I heard a performance I'd previously only heard about, the 1956 Manon Lescaut broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera featuring Albanese & Bjoerling in the leading roles, with Dimitri Mitropolous at the helm. I'm here putting down the notes I made from that experience.

* * * * *
My jaw still hasn’t recovered from hitting the floor. How crazy was this performance??!! It was completely insane.

Albanese sounded a thousand years old - yet really, really hot . . . juicy, even. And her high notes? They blasted out like velvet bullets. Whenever someone speaks about how to "act with the voice" - Albanese is PRECISELY what they're talking about. The emotive skills of both of these singers, is mind boggling . . . huge. Of course I knew this already from their studio recording, and though I’d always heard of this '56 performance, and white hot” it was, I had no idea . . . no idea.

Both Jussi and Licia give such over the top performances that if they were singing these roles today, some would (sadly) laugh at the hysterical, over-emotive “in your face” performances. Then again, maybe not, when the actual singing is of this high quality. Bjoerling’s performance here tops his studio effort for the fact you get the sense he really is living the role. And his top notes (low notes . . . and all notes in between) are spun out with such vocal glory that not only are his excesses forgivable, they’re necessary . . . welcome and thrilling.

Sadly the orchestra (under my man Mitropolous) often sounds bad, undernourished and under rehearsed, and I have to put it on the conductor as I’ve heard the orchestra from that season sound quite fine. (Nobody shoot me please, I can't believe I'm saying that about a man I consider a god). But D.M. pays wonderful attention to his singers and that pay off was worth its weight in gold.

Albanese’s Sola perduta, abbandonata was one of the wildest versions of any aria I’ve ever heard – certainly of this aria, and I mean by about 1000 percent. Shrieking and sobbing and shouting and sobbing and gasping (and sobbing some more) sometimes, remarkably, in the middle of the notes of a phrase. Who else could do this like her? Sometimes she seems even to do this in the middle of a note – it’s madness . . . pure FILTH! Delicious filth. And the notes . . . Oh. My. God. Simply unbelievable. She hurls them out with such force I believe they were very likely heard on Mars. I had to both laugh and cry as she finished the aria punctuated with sobs as continued repeating the aria’s final lines, sobbing and choking out "non voglio morir . . . no voglio morir" over and over, before more sobs, shrieks as a hysterical Jussi returns, joining in the madness.

The closing few minutes were intense beyond the point of ordinary belief – and why should anything about this performance be ordinary?

* * * * *

Licia, of course sang many more roles, logging in over 400 performances with the Metropolitan Opera over a long, distinguished singing career. Singing, however, wasn't her only career, as she went on - up until her passing, encouraging, coaching and aiding new, young singers to get established in this most difficult and rewarding art form. Madame Albanese truly was one of a kind, and though she has passed on, her work and legacy will live on. How lucky we were to have her! Rest in peace, dear lady.

Licia through the years.

Moffo's Exquisite Butterfly.

Hands down, this is easily the finest thing I’ve ever seen from Moffo. With almost no prior professional opera experience, Moffo gives a performance that would be hard to equal in every area of this difficult role. Without a bit of Japanese-style make up, the young soprano moves, sings and creates a Cio Cio San that one cannot imagine bettered – at least I couldn’t (imagine it, that is!).

Both Un bel di and Che tua madre are stunning and punch up the dramatic without overdoing it. Speaking of not overdoing it, Moffo never oversings and, in fact, presents Un bel di almost as if whispering a confidence to Suzuki. The end of the love duet is capped beautifully with Moffo’s ecstatic heroine collapsing backwards into Pinkerton’s arms in as romantic a gesture as has been captured on film.

Opera films from the 50's could frequently be laughable (though endearingly so, but here, there are, in fact, a number of incredible directorial choices both innovative and illuminating, and I say this despite having seen more Butterfly’s than a net would hold (Annette who?) At the start of Act II, we see Butterfly lying on her stomach reading or writing something in Japanese characters, looking every bit the bored-out-of-her mind teenager. It lasts only a minute yet this simple action deepens and fleshes out this complex character, adding a slightly comical note while endearing this Cio Cio San to us even more, if such a thing were possible.

The most touching business occurs during Butterfly's all night vigil. At the very beginning of the Humming Chorus, Moff's Butterfly unwraps Pinkerton’s ring and, in a magnificent dumb show worthy of the finest silent screen actresses, Moffo’s face and features both glow and grow with womanly intensity until she is ultimately swept away by all emotion, yet keeps much of it inside and we somehow see and sense this in a performance both infinitely delicate yet powerful. Cio Cio sand then winds her way back to the bridge path on which she walked to her wedding, settles there and remains alone, away from her child and Suzuki. As Puccini's score signals the early morning sounds, the camera reveals Suzuki and Trouble, inside, still asleep on their cushions. Suzuki rises and as the fantastic score begins sweeping all away in joyous intensity, she begins running frantically, pulling up all of the shades in a sort of deconstruction of their home, flooding it with light exposing the myriad flowers still strewn wildly about. Stepping outside she discovers Butterfly, still kneeling on the bridge where she has spent the night alone, waiting. This is pure lump in your throat stuff, folks and Moffo - even not singing a note - is absolutely amazing. Another marvelous touch occurs at the end of the story, as we watch Butterfly crawling, those flowers to welcome Pinkerton caught up in her hair as she dies. Every gesture, every expression came off with a spontaneity from one who believed she was Cio Cio San. I certainly did.

Then there’s Pinkerton. Unfortunately, Renato Cioni, looking rather handsome and not embarrassing himself too terribly as an actor, offers the roughest voiced, most inelegantly phrased Pinkerton I can recall ever encountering. He sort of shrieks his music throughout with his high notes showing a particularly dreadful technique: a flattening out of vibrato creating an ungodly, painful white sound - the opposite of what anyone wants in Puccini, and certainly not right for Pinkerton. At least he looks good and the director keeps him away after the suicide.

Miti Truccato Pace takes the prize as perhaps the best acted and most sympathetic Suzukis to ever have sung the role, at least on screen. Marvelously touching and in perfect harmony with Moffo's heroine.

Afro Poli is a thoughtful, old school Sharpless, older than usual, but richly voiced and pointing up all of his music with actorly attention.

I've read many complaints about the picture and sound quality of this film which, quite frankly I don't understand. This was a live telecast from January 24, 1956 and we’re lucky to even have it around, in ANY quality, but honestly, I thought the transfer used by VAI to be outstanding. Still, people still seem to think it should look and sound like something from Lucasfilms!

Highly recommended.

Puccini's Edgar: Complete At Last!

This one starts off rough, but allow me to offer three words of advice: Stick with it.

This performance begins fairly lackluster, with singing that is, quite frankly (and brutally) terrible, particularly from the two prima donnas, Amarilli Nizza and Julia Gertseva. The men (Jose Cura as Edgar, Marco Vratogna as Frank and Carlo Cigni as Gualtiero) fair considerably better.

For whatever reasons (and keeping with the current "update" trend) Lorenzo Mariani moves the action up - SIX HUNDRED YEARS - so instead of a medieval tale of lust, blood and redemption, the whole thing looks very "Sunday in the Park With George" - in fact, the unit set is a lush, long grassed expanse like a meadow or unkempt park, steeply raked to appear hilly and fitted with enormous columns giving the feeling of a field near a courtyard. It's lovely to look at and . . . eventually, makes a terrific setting.

If you think you know Edgar well, (as I did), you're wrong. This is the original four act version that received only three performances - at La Scala in April 1889, was declared a failure, and put away never to be heard again, except in a variety of truncated three act versions. The Fourth act is a revelation and consists primarily of a nearly half an hour of music for Edgar and Fidelia - an almost Wagnerian length duet, broken up with asides, choruses - pumping out an array of explosive emotions ranging from the tenderness and elation of love, to the crowds howling at the villainess as she's dragged off to the executioner's sword. It is thrilling.

The second act is slightly laughable - where I've always imagined a filthy 14th century orgy worthy of Hieronymus Bosch what we see is the same grassy park of act one but now with those circular Victorian-era sofas each wrapped around the columns of the first act. The woman are ghastly gotten up in bloomers and elaborate bustiers, their hair piled high a la "Gibson Girl" - and a sextette of them are donned up in Eartha Kit Catwoman masks and long red opera gloves. The whole thing feels like The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas decided to mount The Merry Widow. Julia Gertseva, gorgeous to look at vocally not at all impressive in Act I, here reveals a sizeable high mezzo, with amazingly free top notes, the voice sailing through Puccini's "big girl" music with no fears. In black and red, with a kind of silly tiara, she creates a fascinating, deceptively shallow creature that is one part Lady Macbeth, two parts Thais. (When Edgar abruptly stops making love to her when he hears the military trumpets, you can throw in one part of Carmen, too!). The scenario is a tough one to fall for, but by this point you just have to go with it.

The glory of Edgar is its third act, Puccini's stunningly beautiful Requiem, and everything goes right here (even if it looks like a scene from Jane Eyre or Bleak House). The chorus is terrific, the children's chorus touching and effective and most of all, Amarilli Nizza makes you forget her awkward first act by giving a performance that is soul searing. Her "Addio, mio dolce amor" lets out all the stops, and the glory of her voice - a free and remarkably thrilling top - gives gooseflesh. She dominates the ensemble that follows and her second aria over the shouts of Edgar and the villagers, as she defends the memory of the man all believe dead, before she and the others leave for home, is infinitely moving.

Tigrana's reappearance - to pay her respects, grieve and make her first attempt at prayer - is fouled by being set up and horribly taunted by Edgar and Frank, before she gives in to their offer to betray Edgar's memory. Edgar's revelation provokes another response entirely from the reassembled crowd and the act ends in a moment that is as theatrically compelling and musically thrilling as anything else Puccini was to give us over the ensuing decades. It is a phenomenal moment and a great curtain bringer downer.

The final act opens with Fidelia in her wedding veil, kneeling under and embracing the flowering almond tree she fell in love with Edgar. She has been keeping vigil and the aria about her dream of marrying Edgar in heaven - which on paper sounds almost comically naive - is simply beautiful as handled b Ms. Nizza. Carlo Cigni's Gualtiero's rich, beautiful bass baritone soars beautifully over the chorus in his prayer. Marco Vratogna doesn't get a lot to do as Frank, but his actorly presence is strongly felt throughout each act and when he sings, it's with an impressive voice.

Jose Cura has a major success as Edgar, this performance finding him mostly in glorious voice - the top notes exciting and every once in a while a gleaming hint of squillo creeps in that made me go "oh yeah!." He croons a bit in some of the softer music, sounding like he's coming in for a rough spot at the end of one of his duets with Fidelia. (To her credit Nizza, who sounded as though prepared to hold onto that note duet for eternity, cuts it off short like a true stage partner).

Yoram David leads an a sometimes clunky, but mostly spirited and beautiful performance from the Teatro Regio Torino forces. There are moments that feel under-rehearsed or not thought too much about, for instance he doesn't really milk some of the Requiem music which cries at times for a more expansive reading while here it can be just a bit foursquare. But, mostly he gets it right and the biggest moments ring out with a feverish passion that a work like this needs.

The accompanying pamphlet gives a nice article about the work. Of immense interest is how Linda Fairtile had been trying to re-orchestrate the fourth act, believed to either have been destroyed or forever lost, from Ricordi's piano-only version, when she was approached by Puccini's granddaughter, who brought with her the entire full score which hadn't been seen in 121 years!

I've been a bit surprised a discovery of this magnitude wasn't more publicized, but this is a unique - and downright weird - opera, but don't let that put you off. And don't give up after Act 1 - it's so very, very worth sticking with it!

p.

Tremendous Trittico!

I just finished watching the gorgeous production from Teatro Comunale di Modena and can only say if you love Trittico as I do, you must have this set - and priced as it is it's a steal!

First, all three, distinctive sets by Giacomo Andrico, costumes by Gianluca Fataschi and lighting by Cesare Accetta are nothing short of marvelous, each setting the mood of the piece as soon as the curtain rises.

For Il Tabarro we're plunged into dismal, watery world under the large arch of a Parisian bridge, the barge a depressing and effective playing area, where shadows loom everywhere. The colors and light effects are sensational.

For Suor Angelica, we're in an enormous vaulted room of shifting columns, with set pieces unobtrusively moved into place to change the settings throughout in a way I've not seen done before - even an enormous fountain glides into place for several spectacular effects in the first and final scenes. The miracle is beautifully staged, with a child Madonna leading Angelica's son toward his mother, the son racing to and falling onto and embracing his mother for a touching reunion of smiles before both expire, the little Madonna smiling down on them. Talk about lump in your throat moments!

Schicchi makes me wonder why any director would want to update it, the massive period set evoking the era, but the over-the-top costumes, elaborate wigs, ridiculous hats all like a renaissance painting come to life - save for Schicchi who first appears in a pinstriped suit.

Christina Pezzoli's direction in all three operas brings real theatre into the proceedings, all of the characters richly detailed, stripped (mostly) of old-fashioned cliches and rich with life.

Alberto Mastromarino shines both as Michele and Schicchi, even when his voice sometimes (rarely) threatens to break under pressure. For the most part he sings beautifully and he shows that even a corpulent singer/actor can learn to move and act with grace, style and be a physically thrilling performer. He is that and more - and his curtsey (still in Buoso's gown) at the end is charm itself. Dark, violently threatening as Michele, his Schicchi is fleet and light as a feather. I want to see more of this guy!

Amarilli Nizza pulls off the operatic equivalent of a hat trick nailing all three of the heroines. She is a wildly physical Giorgietta in her flapper get up, complete with garters, stockings and head band. She is both hope and sorrow personified as Angelica, and pulls off a shrewd, if slightly long in the tooth Lauretta, all winks and knowing nods. In one delicious bit of irony, "O mio babbino caro," is sung while daddy pulls her into his coat. It's little touches like this that Ms. Pezzoli injects throughout all three operas that give them a wonderful sense of theatricality. Nizza's voice is an exciting one, not always beautiful of sound, especially when pushing it in the mid range, but she has the most secure and thrilling top I've heard in a soprano in ANY of these roles in a very, very long time. Her high c at the end of the "Lodiam" sequence is thrilling and goes on forever.

Also in Schicchi, the movement from all of the singers is choreographed to the music in an almost comedic balletic fashion that brings it vividly to life. (Though I must say, I've rarely, if ever, seen this particular opera not done well).

The rest of the casts are all marvelous actors and (mostly) good singers, particularly Rubens Pelizzari as Luigi, who several times resembles the young, handsome Pavarotti. His murder at Michele's hands is terrifying, Michele plunging his head into the river, Luigi coming up gasping for air, soaking wet it's positively lugubrious!

The Orchestra della Fondazione Arturo Toscanini and the Coro Lirico Amadeus led by Julian Reynolds is in top form and the entire thing flew by so beautifully and quickly I couldn't believe 3+ hours had come and gone.

I (obviously) can't say enough good things about this one!

Vishnevskaya;s Blazing, Bloody Tosca!

Oh where to begin with this set? Why not, with the diva herself? Vishnevskaya. Never the most purely technical of singers, there are moments when the voice sounds ready to implode upon itself – while other moments are full of rich, nuanced beauty. There are moments, too, when her very Russian accent dominates the sound, and yet few sopranos (Italian or otherwise) can put across Tosca's opening music with that necessary studied casualness and juicy sensuality that Puccini gives to this fascinating creature. Vishnevskaya's voice in 1976 is oh so fascinating - it's big, it’s small - she can scale back the sound, lighten high notes and phrase like an Italian knowing this music from birth. Listen the phrase in her first aria:

"Al tuo fianco sentire
per le silenziose
stellate ombre, salir
le voci delle cose!... "

I've heard numerous otherwise great Toscas massacre that magical phrase, altering vowel sounds in order to get that arpeggiated melody out by any means necessary. One can sometimes almost hear (and visualize) a soprano's facial contortions trying to put across this music that Puccini wants sung as light as air. Vishnevskaya? She nails it - the voice is fleet and liquid, capable of incorporating a lightness of sound - every note measured and weighted precisely and perfectly. When you hear this music sung as intended - just that one little phrase can cause your face to light up. Or at least, cause mine to!

Later, as the scene plays out between Tosca and Mario, Vishnevskaya turns a little ragged at the top - a bit of a wobble creeping in (not a wide one, but that unique slant often prevalent in Slavic female singers). What makes this “wobble” even odder is that, you begin to get used to it and – all of an instant – she’s switched gears and being pouring out this gorgeous liquidy wet sound (I’m reminded of her Swedish contemporary, Elisabeth Soderstrom). Vishnevskaya finishes the scene as though using the arsenal of an accomplished spoken actress more so than your typical opera diva. That is to say, her employment of a wide range of dynamics and voice coloring, is of the kind almost entirely unheard of in opera singing today. Additionally, she tosses off pianos and pianissimi that are just meltingly beautiful – simply ravishing and possibly the envy of more canary-like singers. I understand many opera fans want a more consistently warm and balanced sound, but, for me such a sound is NOT for Tosca. Almost more than any other diva vehicle, Puccini’s heroine allows for crazy, zany alterations and gradations of text painting, particularly when working with a sympathetic conductor. Fortunately for Vishnevskaya, she had that (and much more) in her husband, Mstislav Rostropovich. The work they put into this pays off in spades and Galina – a diva from her temples to her toenails, does Tosca proud.

I remember when this recording first appeared – it was considered “controversial” – but in restrospect – like the Callas 66 recording – it’s one of the most theatrical sounding recordings of Puccini’s potboiler – the audio range remarkably broad. This, too, may frustrate some listeners, but others will find that that broadness infinitely adds to a freshness to a melodrama that can sometimes feel arch and overfamiliar.

Rostropovich finds a mostly excellent band in the Orchestre National de France, and he coaxes them in a reading that is one of the richest sounding on recordings – (a friend and I used to joke “he out Karajan’s Karajan). This broadness of dynamics makes for particularly big fun in moments like Scarpia’s entrance, the cannons and chaos of the choirboy rehearsal and, ultimately, the Te Deum. Rostropovich explores the score mining it for nuances glossed over by more famous conductors of this work, and while some of his choices sound surprising to us today – unsettling even, he offers some of the most viscerally thrilling soundscapes one is likely to hear in this opera, and in some of the most surprising places. An example, take that little bundle of notes before Tosca utters “Dove son?” and then continues “Potessi coglierli, i traditori!” . . . it has NEVER been more etched in mystery, the winds adding eerily familiar yet utterly strangeness to the mix – an almost late 20th century minimalism quality affixed to it – but never letting go of its Puccini-ness, and Slava lets it build until Tosca’s shouted “Tu non l'avrai stasera. Giuro!” The Tosca/Scarpia exchange ends and what happens next is one of the greatest homages to Puccini’s masterpiece as I have ever heard. After the Tosca/Scarpia exchange ends explosively, Slava shapes the score as though he himself is composing it himself on the spot; each of the numerous motifs pours out, one bleeding directly into the next: love theme, Scarpia, the Sacristan chaos – it’s all in there. I don’t know of another conductor (not even Serafin, de Sabata and certainly NOT HvK) who creates so seamless a transition through these eight or so minute sequence - morphing directly into the Te Deum – it’s a positively dizzying swirl of sound, Scarpia, chorus, children, cannons, organ, bells . . . all winding down a single path to the gloriously explosive finale.
Matteo Manuguerra’s slightly fruity, edgy, twisted baritone pours his liquid sinew all over the place, but his “Va, Tosca!” is something special. No, it’s not the greatest of baritone voices, but the way he shades, his flawless understanding of the line makes him an unusually subtle (and thus, creepier than usual) Scarpia. His exchange with Mario in Act II is one of the more exciting on record. Like everything else, Mario’s exit music to the dungeon for this scene is milked for maximum drama. Like the Callas 66 set, there are special sound effects – as though this had been intended as a soundtrack. Also, like the Callas set, Vishnevskaya’s Act II high notes can strip the paint off a car, but you know what? You won’t care (or at least you shouldn’t!) Any subtleties Galina provided in Act I are here, thrown out the window as she lets loose spraying blood all over the place. It may not always be pretty, but it’ll sure as hell let you know what she’s all about.

While Franco Bonisolli never won a prize for subtlety (if he did, I’ll eat my hat), but in 1976 he could offer a visceral, impassioned and wildly over the top young painter with a penchant for and well matched to his Tosca’s. He lets his sound “break” during the fever pitched scene singing from the dungeon and ne’er has there been a more horrific male scream (though, blessedly muffled in the sound mix) before Tosca blurts out Angelotti’s hiding place.

From here on in we’re in for one long wild rollercoaster ride of nearly unrelieved depravity, treachery and high dudgeon from all three stars. While this kind of hell-for-leather take will definitely put some off, others (like me) will find it gloriously old-fashioned and exactly what is missing from too many Tosca’s today. As close to the brink of disaster as he lets it get, Slava knows when to reign it all back in and it’s a fucking thrill a minute here.

Vishnevskaya takes an almost naturalistic, prayerful approach to Vissi d’arte, Slava introducing a far brisker pace than most will be used to, but oh its works! This is all, or course, mere prelude to one of the most terrifying go’s at the murder ever, and an “E morto orgli perdono..." that could give Callas herself the shivers (and one of the just plain weirdest deliveries of “e evanti a lui . . . “ you’ll ever hear). The attention to detail Rostropovich pays here, the music almost disappearing into the floorboards of the stage, then rising, vapor like as if in a blood mist. It makes me wish all the more I could have experienced his Tosca in the theatre.

Bonisolli does nicely enough through “E lucevan la stelle” with a sort of old-fashioned declamation in the first half, then finishes it exactly as you might imagine: milking every last yelp and sob – the equivalent of silent movie eyes, and yes, it, too feels germane to these proceedings. Of course Slava (again!) rolls the postlude into a thrilling springboard for Tosca’s penultimate entrance in this show of shows. The lilting (almost Austrian sounding) upward sweeping glissandi during the scaffold scene as Tosca awaits her lover’s execution underscores the grand horror about to unfurl . . . and we wait with her – and then “e con Artista!” is screamed out with zeal, love, pride and abandon.

Yes, her soprano can be wild, uneven, almost crude at times – but there is no doubt that Vishnevskaya has thought about and fleshed this character out so meticulously that, I find myself coming back to it as often as I do the more famous versions by those Greek and Roman woman. It's that damn good!

Holy Tosca, Batman!

Although I saw it (on a poorly transferred PAL tape) when new, I just purchased the new Decca Tosca DVD from the Amsterdam production in
1998. Last night I watched it in superior conditions to those of a decade ago and am haunted still. I like when that
happens.

First off, Lehnhoff's production is going to seriously piss some people off but it is singularly one of the
most exciting performances of Tosca I can recall seeing in years. Lehnhoff has taken Puccini's "shabby little shocker" and done what many of us have been eternally waiting for – putting it over the top, right where it belongs. He has stripped the tale of its ornate baroque trappings and set it in what appears to be hell. For those who want read only about the musical performance - jump about half a dozen paragraphs.

Act 1's church is an enormous cavernous, foreboding place. Cavarodossi's Magdalene painting absolutely gargantuan on a highly raised platform that dominates the rear of the stage. Instead of rococo pillar and posts, the stage floor is filled with countless metal and glass columns a mite taller than your average man. These columns provide incredible playing areas turning the enormous stage into a series of more intimate settings that work magnificently. During the Te Deum, Scarpia alone is on stage before a painting of the devil and at each cannon burst during this the tops of the columns erupt into flame – the cameras catching Scarpia's malevolent sneer, the flames leaping up towards him. It is one of the most exciting images I've ever seen. And there were more of these to come.

Scarpia's apartment is of the industrial-strength variety. A massively long two prong staircase dominates the rear stage wall the massive walls go seemingly all the way to the fly space of the opera house. Stage right's wall is dominated by an enormous turbine which, along with the stairs charges the atmosphere with an ominous subterranean feeling. This is not a fun place. At
curtain's rise Big Bad Scarpia is on an eight foot long divan, in tight silk lounge pants with a lizard/snakeskin motif and matching sleeveless vest (my Mom had something similar in the 70's . . . Hostess Pants). He is stroking a beautiful yellow tabby. Cool.

When Tosca first appears, all we see are her red high heels coming down the first staircase – shoes she will remove before reclining on the divan for Scarpia to collect his prize. Only after the murder do we realize the massive staircases have disappeared and we feel, along with Tosca completely trapped. There are no other doors – the room converted into an enormous death trap, the only air seemingly coming from the turbine. Tosca goes into a genuine panic during the dumb show – now stripped/relieved of the pseudo- religious crucifix/candelabra business. In her search for the safe passage conduct, Tosca discovers and takes a gun – almost hinting at suicide in her terror. When a panel opens moonlight seems to stream in revealing a hidden
exit. With pistol in hand and tea-length fur coat dragging behind . . . It is thrilling business.

The final act is on an enormous stage filling disc, the floor of which is covered by the shadow of light pouring down from the turbine – which is now in the ceiling. The rear of the stage gives the feeling of being at the edge of the world – with the moon and stars reflecting in the night. It's stunning and chilling all at once.

After the execution, the distraught, now fully deranged Tosca holds Scarpia's henchmen at bay waving the gun – and one almost senses she's going to blow her brains out . . . but instead she runs, flings it to the ground and takes a flying leap out the heavens that took my breath away – her hair wildly trailing behind her as Sciarrone and Spoletta hit the ground to safely watch her from above.

I have read some startling bad reviews of this production, and I simply cannot fathom how anyone would not be wowed by it. It is an absolutely chilling performance.

Now to the cast. Malfitano is Tosca to the teeth. Not your average Tosca, this one is neurotic and obsessive from her first appearance. In the final act she is barefoot and costumed like a Martha Graham dancer. Indeed, Malfitano never stops moving – her body, her hair all fluid movement – almost hallucinatory. It's a marvelous performance. The down side is that the voice was never built for Tosca. So much of the musical drama sits at either end of the range – really low lows, and pretty high highs. At both ends Malfitano's instrument simply lacks body and beauty. To her credit she insists on singing every note, but the low "chesty" business that so many singers make thrilling, are here unlovely and growled and at times barely audible. The less said about
the inaccurate pitching at the top of the range the better. Still MUCH of Tosca lies in the middle to middle high and here, Malfitano still possesses a voice of bright, unforced lyric beauty. If this is going to bother you, you should skip it, but if you want a performance that is 75% really good singing and 100% committed acting, Malfitano's your gal. I loved her.

In Act II, I kept thinking Theda Bara had been reincarnated – Malfitano HAS to know this and have played on the similarities. She looks terrific (some complain that even 10 years ago she looked too old for Tosca . . . nonsense). Her "Vissi d'arte " is exceptionally powerful – revealing more than a dozen other Tosca's combined. Her Act III performance is pure over-the-top, flitting and dancing and laughing – a mad scene, really and believe it or not, it works perfectly in this context. I always thought Behrens had the best flying leap of any Tosca – but Cathy M. goes her one better - it is and it's captured with breathtaking, horrifying beauty.

Richard Margison. I've never been a big fan of the man, but having read so many negatives about his Cavaradossi I must admit to being pleasantly surprised. He's involved and engaging, and I bought what he brought to the role. Recondita Armonia is beautifully sung if a little inelegantly phrased at times. The central act he rings out passionately. Oddly "E lucevan la stele" is sung accurately, but with an odd tone that sounds more furious than forlorn.
When Tosca arrives, Margison's Mario sounds much better, caressing the line and believable in the drama. Yes, he's got a big gut . . . so what? I was surprised at the depth of some of his acting here, and confused by those who accuse him of just walking through the role. Nope.

The night, of course belonged to Terfel in this, his first assumption of Scarpia. Some may not like him, but this is the Scarpia of my dreams in every way. Larger than life, Terfel's voice rings out with a liquidity one seldom hears in this role anymore. There is a "wetness" to his sound that reminds me of Elisabeth Soderstrom (if you know what I mean). Physically, Terfel exudes a creepy sensuality that feels almost x-rated. Everything seems to revolve around sex,
evil and cruelty. The ending of the first act with the Te Deum sung so rapturously, flames licking up as this devil holds the stage by himself is a theatrical tour de force. Poured into his lizard lounge pants he amps up the carnality and when he stalks Tosca up the stairs I truly sensed danger as the hair rose on the back of my neck. This Scarpia has everything planned and
intricately ordered – seemingly controlling the very universe from his bunker- like world. For a clue to his sense of order in this nightmare watch him polish a glass before he pours that "vin d'espagna."

The Welshman performs this role as though he were born to play it – and I think he was. How exciting it is to see this different approach to one of opera's greatest roles and Terfel rises to the challenges imposed by Puccini and Lehnhoff, looking not just comfortable but entirely natural and believable every sick step of the way.

Riccardo Chailly has no less than the Royal Concertgebouw Orchestra as the pit band and the score has rarely sounded this lush and symphonic. Chailly brings out details frequently lost in other performances, his pacing is fluid and at times much slower than I am used to hearing in modern performances, but never indulgent. The sound on the DVD is almost more "studio" than live performance and this is enhanced by the silence of the audience until the very
end when they go properly mad. So did I.

There is an interesting 17 minute behind the scenes documentary with some cast interviews and Lehnhoff and Chailly offering up their opinions.

I've heard the evil "E" word hurled at this production, and indeed some may find they simply cannot tolerate the changes of settings, but for anyone who can keep an open mind about these sorts of things – hang on tight 'cause you're in for a hair raising ride!

p.