Pelléas et Mélisande : Golaud's Turn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Billy Budd: The Shirtless Option?

Members of several online opera sites are speculating whether next season's production of Billy Budd will find Nathan Gunn shirtless in the title role or not. Though the Met's production hasn't as yet featured a topless Billy - Gunn seems to appear regularly in roles that "require" him to have at least a scene or two sans a shirt. I'm guessing his Met costume will be a bit "briefer" than past interpreters of the role at Lincoln Center.

The role of Billy has - in a great many productions over the last 20 years or so - featured quite a number of half naked Budd's. Here are a few of the more famous/notable ones. Note: none of them is Mr. Gunn.

Simon Keenlyside: Wigmore Hall Recital (CD)

I’ve been giving another listen to Simon Keenlyside’s wonderful Wigmore Hall recital with pianist Malcolm Martineau, given on 26 October 2008 and what a joyous celebration of song this recital is.

Opening with a set of Schubert that is not without a couple of flaws here and there, Keenlyside takes risks that seem uncommon today to recitalists today, seemingly shading texts and lines with something that approaches equal part musician and singing actor. There is a touch of huskiness when he approaches head voice that I‘m sure will drive some listeners running. For some this sort of thing simply will not do, but for those who love genuine interpretive singing those blemishes seem actually to enhance the text. Schubert’s “Verklärung“ (Transfiguration), which begins with a rather grand operatic recitative before segueing into its gentle lied the baritone alternates between almost painfully beautiful tone to hushed, slightly rasped sound . . . but with the text “let me dwindle away gently,” such an effect is (to these ears) not only welcome, but raises the song to something beyond the
beautiful noise that many lieder singers - and audiences - seem satisfied
with.

The following “Die Sterne” has a lilting, almost dance-like quality . . . and so it goes, throughout with Keenlyside making the most of every line of text, wedding it beautifully with the music and unafraid to change the tone from robust to delicate. His observations to appogiatura, turns is exemplary in each song. The Schubert set ends with that old chestnut (which seems rarely heard anymore) “Ständchen” - as lovely as I’ve heard in a very long time - and seemingly the audience as well as I can rarely recall a first set of a recital ending with cheers as well as applause.

Even better is the set of six Wolf lieder, though moments of the first “Der Knabe und das Immlein” have a couple of intonation and tonal issues which, as the singer portrays the song’s several characters sound as if they threaten to lose control. Immediately on its heels however follow absolutely gorgeous readings of “Gesang Weylas” and “An die Geliebte” that are positively swoon--inducing. The best of the Wolf, however is grandly theatrical “Lied vom Winde“ which ends with Keenlyside saying his goodbye as if he’s floating away himself. It is nothing short of brilliant musicmaking and word painting, which is what this sort of thing is all about anyway, ja?

The singer really excels at programming for each set seems to move from strength to strength and the Wolf is followed by eight gems by Fauré. His French sounds (to me anyway) near perfection, and the colors in his voice match the composer’s requirements. Again, here Keenlyside show a fearlessness with an ability to float in some head voice - usually to exquisite effect. In “En sourdine” - the richness of his voice blends to stunning effect with a natural leaning into the nasality of the language that . . . well, here comes that word again . . . “exquisite.” If he does not break your heart in “Spleen” . . . see a doctor, it may not be fixable.

I tend to love the Fauré the most, but really, Simon’s best singing comes in the Ravel that closes the recital. Here, the most beautiful part of his voice - the middle - is allowed to shine more than in any other portion of the recital. As elsewhere, Keenlyside’s attention to textures and word painting is captivating and “freed” (if that’s the right word) from the rhythmic structure of more standard poetry verse, his reaching for dramatic effects is more welcome than - even using straight tone and other vocal “effects” to maximize the wedding of word to music.

Simon gets a nice little laugh announcing his encore, Poulenc’s “Hotel” - but no laughs from the beautiful rendition he closes the recital with.

Throughout the entire program, Mr. Martineau proves to be an absolutely compelling partner to the singer, the two seemingly breathing every phrase and nuance in tandem. Even more remarkably, Martineau seems to sense what appear to be "on the spot" (though this is clearly the work of a well rehearsed team) sudden changes, as when the singer suddenly produces an instant - and ravishing diminuendo - the piano subsides immediately, giving a sense of spontaneity both rare and wonderful.

For lovers of classic style vocal recitals, this is a must have and I can’t imagine ANY fan of this wonderful singer being without this release. Get it. Seriously.