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.

Alagna and Alfano's "Cyrano": Panache!

A most remarkable DVD. Just about every aspect of this production from Montpellier Opera is flawless, making as strong a case for a revival of this opera as possible. First off, there is the Cyrano of Roberto Alagna. We first see him before the opera starts darting down the stairs of the opera house and running through the lobby. Once the opera begins, he makes a sensational entrance from the back of the house, moving among the audience, before hopping up on the stage. Second, the production by the Alagna Brothers is a sumptuous, visual feast full of color, marvelous stage effects and, when called for, theatrical simplicity.

There is no way to describe Alagna's Cyrano as anything less than sensational. In excellent voice, with thrilling top notes and his natural French the text is sung with elegance and plenty of panache. Whether running, strutting like a peacock, swashbuckling or hiding from view, Alagna's every move is executed with the elegant grace of a dancer. It is a joy watching someone have this much fun in a role. He executes some fine sword fighting and even as diminutive as he is, makes this character larger than life. His arioso "Oh! Paris!," which ends the first scene begins so hauntingly, beautiful building to a crashing, thrilling conclusion. The call to arms for the Cadets of Gascony (I don't know what it's properly called) is as rousing as one could hope for. If Alagna's Cyrano had called, I'd have rushed to join the Muskateers, too!

Richard Troxell strikes all the right balances as Christian. The duet between he and Cyrano pledging their allegiance to become "one man" develops beautifully, and rushes into an breathless finish. Anyone who criticizes Alfano's gifts as a composer needs only hear this duet to be proven wrong.

The music opening Act II is the equal to Massenet in Manon at conveying both musically, and eloquently, a sense of a specific time and place without actually resorting to composing 18th century style music.

What a gem is the Roxane of Nathalie Manfrino. Physically and vocally she could be the twin of Christiane Oelze - nowhere more so then in the final act where, with Alfano's so very French music she recalls Oelze as Melisande. Manfrino is a genuine beauty and the voice, a lovely lyric with some wonderful bloom to the top notes, constantly impresses. Like Alagna (and Troxell) her acting felt genuine, one believed her Roxane at every turn. There were times I was a little angry with her shallowness and cruelty towards Christiane, but it all works out.

The physical production by the tenor's brothers David and Frederico, along with costumes by Christian Gasc make this a visual feast. I don't know how long they all worked on this, but the flow of this Cyrano, the quality and naturalness of the acting (particularly Alagna's title character) is as fine as one could hope to see from any opera video.

There were plenty of gorgeous musical highlights; the amazing Balcony Duet, with everybody firing on all cylinders; the wordless chorus sung by the soldiers . . . , so many others.

It is, however, the final act that absolutely destroys me. Alfano's heavy use of woodwinds, descending scales on flute, a vibrant buzz of reeds, and with swirling strings, it could easily be mistaken for Debussy (especially with the uniformly excellent French coming from this cast). Alagna's transformation of Cyrano, from cocky showman to now a tired and frail man, (but no less proud) is a heart breaker. As soon as he arrives at the convent, it is evident the tenor is giving one of the best performances of his life. As death approaches, the score grows more and more delicate, with unaccompanied passages sung by Roxane (also reminiscent of Debussy's Melisande), but branded with Alfano's own original stamp (which I'm getting to know better and better). As Cyrano reads the final letter to Roxane, the clarinet takes up the soaring melody and it shoots right to the heart in music that is nearly overwhelmingly poignant.

The efforts of all involved pay off in a wonderfully theatrical and musically exquisite performance. For the longest time I believed Alagna could do nothing better than his performance in that amazing Bond prodeuction of Don Carlos from the Chatelet, but this Cyrano truly is a creature that touched me as profoundly as any I can think of.

Highly recommended.

Menotti: The Saint of Bleeker Street

While I'm aware there's a good number of folk who despise the music of Gian Carlo Menotti, I'm going ahead with this post anyway.

I recently re-watched the old telecast of  The Saint of Bleeker Street from New York City Opera and found myself in a puddle of tears not only at the end, but at several other moments throughout. A well regarded critic - who's also close friend, once told me it was "too manipulative." I thought about that for a moment:  too manipulative?  Okay . . . perhaps, but cannot the same charge be leveled of not only many other operas, but of art and music generally?  The story is not presented as a series of unbiased facts but rather something told by a storyteller who invites us (and yes, manipulates) us into trying to see the tale as he or she does. I believe a willingness to be manipulated is part of the agreement we make whenever we enter an opera house, theatre . . . or even a museum.

Menotti's so-called "simple story" is, in truth, no such thing; From the beginning its layers peel back like the proberbial onion, each one revealing more and more. 

We are confronted with myiad components; it is at once a tale of fanaticism, the quest and questions for a spiritual journey, the interactions of a displaced community, the story of an abiding friendship, misunderstanding, loyalty, jealousy, murder, poverty, and . . . ultimately, hope. All of this hits us full force, without apologies, without excuses and yet, by the end, Menotti has left us even more room for thought as its many questions are left unresolved to all, except for Annina - the Saint herself, who, of course, cannot tell us.

I find Menotti's score to be the most beautiful of h is operas, and will go so far as to say, that musically it's one of the finest of all of the mid-20th century operas,  Even so, it gets frequently dismissed as "warmed over Puccini," though nothing could be further from the truth. As with most composers, there are noticeable influences throughout, and I'd go so far to say that Menotti puts as much Alban Berg and Mussorgsky into his score as Puccini.  Ultimately, however, he speaks here in a voice that, is distinguished and very much his own. We hear that turgid - angular chugging found in most of his scores for strings and winds that propel the story forward, He understands - and relishes - the relationship between dissonance and consonance and yes, when needed, is ever unafraid to tug at our heartstrings for those who, like myself, welcome having them so tugged. It is obvious he is writing from love and passion as well as skill.

His writing for strings rivals, and shares similarities here with Sibelius and Tchaikovsky. The tension of the string movements in the opening recalling a certain, more celebrated work by his friend, Mr. Barber. While giving us much to ponder, the long-phrased melodies for both orchestra and singers, can go directly to the heart - which is what I often want from an opera composer - and cause me both to think and feel . . . . simultaneously. Music allows us the unique ability to overpower more than one sense at a time, as happens with the gentle intermezzo before the final scene.

The writing for chorus in this opera is majestic and powerful. Ingeniously, Menotti's libretto never places this cathedral-like music in a vaulted church setting, but rather in a cold water flat, adding yet another dimension of thought . . . another layer of palpable emotion. I often think of Boris Godunov or even Porgy and Bess at times.

Saint is also packed with some marvelous arias, beginning with Annina's Stigmata aria. Brother Michele's I know that you all hate me has become one of those Menotti arias that finds its way into auditions and recitals for young tenors.  Desideria's big scene raises  the dramatic stakes to a boiling point.  There is  Don Marco's short aria with its postlude that becomes an intermezzo between the two halves of Act 1, and so many other ensembles.

The scenes of loyalty and friendship, between Annina and Carmela go straight to the heart.  Manipulated that way? Yeah . . . and beautifully. 

I know all the reasons it is not, yet personally still find it difficult to comprehend why this opera is so seldom performed. 

 How fortunate I was to attend several performances at Washington Opera back in the 80's, in a stunning performance directed by the composer himself, a production mounted in honor of his 80th birthday. Remarkable.

City Opera was fortunate to have Catherine Malfitano and Diana Soviero, as Annina and Carmela; each giving a performance nothing short of amazing. Malfitano, while a bit strained at some moments handles the music skillfully and theatrically . . . well, she is devastating. Soviero, in what can be perceived as a secondary role, turns it into a virtual tour-de-force; caressing each note with tenderness and emotion. As Annina's protective best friend, Soviero seems the one person who best understands Annina's desires. Even when wordless, kneeling beside her friend's chair - Soviero's face radiates an ecstasy that transcends words, mirroring the mystical Annina's faith as she embraces, and welcomes death. We watch her, cradling with love, her friend's lifeless body, suppressing her sobs as she lifts Annina's arm to accept the ring of faith. At this moment, Carmela's situation is more heartbreaking than her friend's death because we identify immediately with her grief. This is great opera. This is great theatre.


So, after this performance, then what?  More Menotti.  After drying my eyes, I put on the Piano Concerto in a sparkling, scintillating performance by Earl Wilde. The Concerto belongs alongside Prokofiev, Barber and Poulenc in wonderful 20th century concerti. With its Scarlatti and Bach like polyphony, it requires both bravura and charm, and would offer a nimble fingered pianist - something unusual and rarely played. And yet, like his operas, the Concerto gets very little recognition.  Lord knows, I'd prefer hearing it once in a while as an alternative to yet another performance of Brahms or Rachmaninoff.

While I also have enormous respect for  . . . and a similar reaction to The Consul, it is easy for me to say that of all Menotti's operas, I find The Saint of Bleecker Street the most deserving of being brought back and could imagine a terrific production somewhere in Lincoln Center.  Even though it was conceived for The Broadway Theatre (where it ran for 92 performances), it's a grand work and deserving of the first rate treatment . . . and an HD performance.  I already have a cast in mind! So let's do it!

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!

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Alfano: Long Lost Sakuntala - At Last!

Some nights ago I pulled out a treasure of fairly recent discovery – a work I’d long known of, but recordings of which seemed impossible to find until several years ago when a live one – the only one I’m aware of, came my way: Ladies and Gentlemen, presenting Alfano’s “Sakuntala.”

There is, as one might expect from any “lesser” composer of the time, much influence of Debussy and Strauss throughout the score. To that end it is almost not quite “Italian” sounding. Quite simply, Alfano’s instrumentation and use of color is nothing less than remarkable and gorgeous - exotic. I had often read that Puccini himself had been influenced by the younger composer and that the writing we find so captivating in Turandot (and rather different from most of Puccini’s other work) came from his having read Alfano’s score. Finally getting a listen-to of Sakuntala, one can definitely hear where Puccini got some of his Turandot ideas.

Interestingly, part of the long first act duet between the King and Sakuntala is strongly reminiscent of what Alfano would write in Turandot’s finale – a finale that used Puccini’s own musical shorthand – already “borrowed” from Alfano! This first act duet between the lovers, more than do most other Italian operatic duets, approaches a near Tristan length and Alfano never seems to run out of ideas. Stunning is not too strong a word to describe it.

Later, there’s a moment - toward the beginning of Act II – which sounds like the font from which Philip Glass seems to drunk to have gotten some of his best ideas.

In the second act our heroine is given an enormous aria – a 10 minutes voice buster which (almost literally) breathtakingly segues into the next scene. This is a truly huge sing for the soprano.

Alfano’s vocal writing here turns seems to turn away from Italian tradition and is far different than what we get from Puccini in this same period. Alfano seems more here by Wagner than does Puccini. Phrases are much longer with a sort of pseudo- Wagnerian- parlando, yet without sounding particularly Wagnerian. It’s really lovely – and rather original.

A dance/ballet opens the final act that strongly recall’s Strauss. This is not particularly great music, but (like Strauss’s Veil Dance) atmospheric and never less than enjoyable. That is no small compliment in and of itself. In all likelihood, the dance stands a better chance of being performed than the rest of this beautiful work.

In many respects I find a musical/spiritual connection between this work and Enescu’s Oedipe and those who have recently discovered the joys of that other obscure opera are certain to find plenty to enjoy here.

This recording was taken from a 1979 performance. The principal roles are sung by:

Sakuntala - Celestina Casapietra
The King - Michele Molese
Kanva - Aurio Tomicich

with the RAI Symphony and Chorus conducted by Ottavio Ziino.

Ms. Casapietra was entirely unknown to me. While I would have liked a juicier, firmer voice she does manage the difficult high music quite well and sings with a great (impressive actually) amount of emotion, such that one senses she really “feels” this music. The lower voice can be a bit shaky (actually, fairly often) with a hollow quality that is never particularly lovely. The third act goes much better for her, the top notes opening up in a way they hadn’t earlier and the effect is (save for one squally High C – ironically on the word “Orror!”) and her singing here turns quite thrilling, her commitment paying off and that in and of itself is an important thing in getting this work to come across to those unfamiliar with this work. (which is pretty much everyone).

New York City Opera stalwart, Michele Molese starts off just a wee bit thin, but within minutes the voice takes on a rich bloom and his sound - past the passagio - is generally thrilling. Like Casapietra he sings the music with conviction, the pair of them almost
seeming to get carried completely away by Alfano’s sumptuous outpourings.

The final scene looks so forward to the final bars composed for Turandot that there simply can be no doubt left as to who’s ideas closed that opera.

Though the sound is not flawless (there appears to be some bleed through in spots which I’m guessing stem from the original tape source) it is more than good enough to convey the sense of wonder Alfano infuses through so much of this strange and beautiful work.

I really couldn’t be more pleased with this release.

Bravo, Alfano!

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