But, watching the encore broadcasts in a movie
theater is also tremendously enjoyable. And now, due to the COVID-19 crisis,
and thus to the many people who have to remain indoors, Met Opera has put at
our disposal several of these operas, to stream for free, in the comfort of our
homes - one per day, starting Monday,
March 16.
Opera, the most complex and, in many ways (and for
many) the pinnacle, of all art forms; combining music (some of the best music
ever written, vocal and orchestral; from solo arias, to quartets, to choral pieces), theatre (poetry, literature), dance (ballet; or,
simply, choreography, movement), design (sets, costumes; colors, shapes; cultural and historical references) – with a deep rootedness in history, mythology, and
(broadly understood) Western culture; opera, then, is a (and maybe the) pinnacle
of Western (and generally human) artistic production.
And every opera is like a lavish, multi-hour, immersive trip
into a different universe, to different lands, times, stories, characters. What
follows below is a chronicle, then, of the “trips” that I have taken this past week,
by virtue of this excellent initiative of the Met Opera.
***
And yet, all that being said, I will begin with a non-Met
opera, which I watched on the Sunday before the broadcasts began.
La Traviata
This 1967 opera film (video) stands out especially
through the pathos-filled, physically expressive and vocally pure performance
from Anna Moffo (as Violetta), and through some painterly framing, staging, and
lighting. Examples of the latter are the scene with Violetta in bed, attended
by the doctor, as seen from the hallway, while Annina (the maid) is seated by
the door, guarding her room; or, the very last frame, which is a close-up of
Violetta’s face (see especially the lighting, there). Overall, the staging is both
harmonious and careful (in terms of the positional arrangement and blocking of the
characters), and it is neither overdone nor spartan (set decoration). Although all the singers (who are also actors, in this opera
film) do an excellent job, what elevates the entire show is clearly Anna Moffo
- whose presence is charismatic and whose vocal performance is exquisite. Of
course, Verdi’s music is sheer pleasure – numerous well-known arias and themes
(including some purely orchestral pieces), of which my favorite must be the aria Un dí felice, eterea. I particularly enjoyed the duet between Violleta and
Alfredo’s father, as well, and the trio at the end - but there are, of course, so
many of these musical pieces to list! Finally, I should also remark that the
show does not feel dated (if anyone might worry about such a thing), notwithstanding
its 1967 release date. Fazit: I enjoyed it very much.
***
Carmen
Of course, at these levels of stratospheric vocal artistry,
it is hard (and somewhat untoward) to say anything that would sound even slightly
derogatory about any of these vocal performances (and I will try not to do that). Nonetheless, I
can mention the fact that I prefer to see in the role of Micaëla more of an “ingénue”;
and the reason for saying this is that in my mind I have, as a model for that
role, Sabina Cvilak’s performance at the Washington National Opera (who, that night,
managed to outshine – her, in many ways a beginner - much bigger
names; playing what is, after all, a secondary - albeit noteworthy - role). And
when I am referring to an “ingénue,” I am referring both to appearance (although
this is a secondary criterion, naturally, when casting operas), and in terms of the voice type (as I prefer lighter, sprightlier soprano voice, in this role). All this being said, one can only talk about
Barbara Frittoli’s vocal performance (as Micaëla), in this production, with
terms of praise; my notes here are just an expression of preference, then.
Because, truly, I do prefer in lyrical roles – in feminine
roles - voices that are nimbler, sprightlier, generally less heavy. Of course,
there are many types of lyrical roles - and corresponding voice types (see also the discussions below, of
the other operas). But let us take Garanča
as Carmen, as an example, for what I mean; even while restating that she was
vocally well-nigh perfect, and that her excellent performance was truly the
“heart” of the entire show, I would remark (in a parenthesis) that in the
famous aria L'amour est un oiseau rebelle I would have preferred a more dansant
approach (dancing, dance-like) – which is why I found this particular rendition
of the piece just a tiny bit dragging (just a bit earth-bound). But these are minor
footnotes around excellent overall performances. Speaking of which, let us
remark again that Frittoli (Micaëla) delivered a great vocal performance
(fitting her own specific - personal and vocal - profile).
Since it is neither useful nor needful to go through each vocal performance (given their universally elevated
quality), I will refer however to specific aspects that stood out for me. For example, baritone Earle Patriarco as one of the gypsy leaders
brought a much appreciated patch of color to the proceedings; although in a
supporting role, his presence was very much tridimensional (and this is not easy
to do - see the other secondary roles, in this same show - which just goes to show how many things,
beyond vocal qualities, are necessary in order to become an outstanding opera performer).
In other words, stage charisma (just like how an actor comes across through the
movie camera) is not something one can just “make up”; often, it is a given je
ne sais quoi that the person is fortunate to discover to possess.
Another thing that I would remark on is about the choice that the
director (Gary Halvorson) made (and I suppose it was his choice), regarding what
Garanča called the
two main possibilities that one has, when approaching this opera – namely, whether
to put the emphasis on “sexuality” (or, let's say, the "passion"), or on “liberty” (the
frenzy and boundlessness of that Gypsy freedom). Of course, she was referring more
narrowly to the Carmen role itself, but this is also true, in a good degree,
for the opera as a whole (as Carmen is its central engine and heart); although,
indeed, there is also a parallel drama (key to the story, as well), that takes place,
regarding the salvation or damnation - civil and spiritual - of Don José. Anyway
- Halvorson, the director (again, I assume it was his choice), chose to
emphasize the erotic aspect of this all; not the passionate, but the visibly erotic
– and that was a flaw. Because, in my view, one can indeed do that - emphasize
the loverly, passionate, even carnal) in many ways. What do I mean: if sensuality
and passion (which are intrinsic part of Carmen’s persona as a seductress, and of
the devastating impact of this persona on the proceedings) are what you want to emphasize, you can do it; but how you do that makes the artistic difference. For example, one can suggest drunkenness - or one can get
the actors drunk, and let them roll in the mud. In my view, the artist’s skill resides
precisely in the subtlety of the creative choices that he makes to suggest,
imply, convey this passion and sensuality – rather than in “showing” it, through visible
gestures and almost vulgar actions. In other words, "showing" is cheap, but "conveying" is artistry.
That being said, some other things that I liked were, for example,
the set design; which was excellent, using (but not overusing) several sides of a rotating
stage - and conveying whole atmospheres with just the right type and amount of décor
(I especially liked the setting for the final scene – in an
“alleyway” behind the bullfighting arena). I also enjoyed the kinetics of
Carmen’s “escape” – when the rotation of the stage became an element in the very
dynamism of the action, both allowing her to hide from the pursuers, and revealing her to us, the spectators. There
was also a lovely touch at the end; as predicted in the cards, both Carmen and
Don José are supposed to die; however, in the actual opera, Bizet only implies
Don José’s fate, as something that will happen after the opera ends (while we see, of course, Carmen’s demise). The director made up
for this slight “incompleteness” by adding to the scene a Spanish soldier, standing, as a shadow, with his gun aimed at Don José (while the latter
is crumbled on the floor, holding the dead Carmen); a very nice foreshadowing
of Don José’s eventual demise.
And, about Bizet’s music - what could we even add, here? Too
many “hits” to mention! But do pay attention also to the purely
orchestral pieces – the preludes, the entracte – as you will also hear “hits,”
very familiar lines, there as well.
Overall, then, a whirlwind of passion; intense drama, internal and external; a headstrong, unruly, passionate Carmen; the tragic fate of a (good) man; love pure as represented by Micaela and by Don José’s mother; the
lawlessness, romanticism, and dangerousness of the gypsy life, and of its “freedom”; a transcendent performance from Elina Garanča; a masculine, volcanic
Don José, by Roberto Alagna – and much more, in this Met production of Bizet’s Carmen.
***
La Bohème (2008)
And now to the other central feature – the star cast.
Unsurprisingly, of course, all were very much up to task - and more.
Furthermore, this was one of those occasions in which each member of the cast –
Mimi, Rodolfo, the other three artists, and Musetta - managed to
stand out as an individual character unto themselves (although perhaps a
bit less so in the case of Schaunard). Again, this is not an easy thing to do –
to project a notable presence, to create a memorable, distinct role (in a secondary role).
About the singers: Ramón Vargas impressed me by the way
in which he used inflections, pauses, and certain liberty with the diction, to
invest his words with passion and with pathos, thus making these words “his” - and also making the
character "alive". For example, his Che gelida mannina (which, by
the way, might just be one of my all-time favorite opera arias) was just thrilling
(video). Although Vargas might not fit our mental image of
the conquering, yet penurious poet - in about ten seconds,
he makes the character his own, embodying Rodolfo (from now on) for us, and
making us forget any previous mental images we might have had.
About Angela Gheorghiu (as Mimi), the first thing that
struck me was the youthfulness of her voice; in addition (as explained
in the discussion about Carmen) I always prefer nimbler, sprightlier voices for
lyrical soprano roles. Yet nimbleness does not mean lacking in volume, or amplitude
– but a sort of agility, an ability to skip, without being dragged down by the low harmonics, to “dance”, as it were, without being burdened by too much gravity. And yes, Gheorghiu’s voice had both nimbleness and agility, as well as volume and amplitude. In fact, if there was an aspect that
I liked less, it was exactly the fact that, due to the power of her voice (commanding
is perhaps the best word to characterize the performance), sometimes she overshadowed Ramón Vargas’ part (in their duets). But no, this does not mean that Ramón Vargas was actually
overwhelmed – only that there was a slight imbalance, at times, vocally.
And one could say that this imbalance also manifested
itself, a bit, in their approach (Gheorghiu’s and Vargas’) to acting out their
characters. See, for example, how Mimi appears to us in Act One - and I am referring to the fact that I was
not entirely thrilled with the overly active, even hyperactive, ever-changing
facial expressions from Ms. Gheorghiu, which I found somewhat distracting, and also –
as said – not in harmony with her partner's, Vargas’ acting choices. Without making too
much fuss over all this - which would
be unnecessary – I wanted to make this remark in order to point to a broader
issue, namely to how important it is for performers (actors, singers) to
“respond” to each other, to be “in tune” with each other, to be attentive and to reflect each other’s performances. And this is true both in theater (or in the movies), and in “musical theater” (opera).
Another vocal performance – or, rather, voice – that I
really enjoyed hearing (and discovering) was that of Ludovic Tézier, as
Marcello. What a beauteous, clear, appealing baritone voice!
And let me also remark Musetta’s character, as sung and
played by Ainhoa Arteta, who ("both") brought a sense of burning passion, vivaciousness,
and genuine dedication (notwithstanding the initial flightiness of the character) to the piece.
Finally, a few words about La Bohème itself, as it might
be the first time that I truly understood that the piece is not about Rodolfo
and Mimi, but in fact about “la bohème”, about that bohemian life of artistic Paris.
That very attractive, clearly idealized life of the struggling artist;
perpetually poor but always in good humor; with creative effervescence and the care-less-ness
of youth; indeed, a very romantic and attractive image –
and, as Angela Gheorghiu said in her intermezzo interview - perhaps one of the reason why we are so
attracted to this opera. Indeed, if one pays attention, one realizes that good portions
of acts one and four are simply about these four bohemian artists, about their
life, art, and friendship – and those scenes are delightful, genuinely fun,
and, as said, quite attractive.
Standouts, then: Zeffirelli’s production; Gheorghiu’s
ever-youthful voice; Ramon Vargas making Rodolfo’s role truly his own, with a
great rendition of Che gelida mannina – and much more.
If there would be anything to add – and while it is of
course a bit late to share one’s suggestions with Giacomo Puccini - I would note that, while the ending is dramatic, I would not have chosen to end the opera with Mimi’s death.
Instead, I would have appended an additional scene (or act), taking place, for example, a
year later, in the same artists’ apartment; with Marcello at the canvas, and
Rodolfo singing an aria - melancholy, wistful,
but also with hope - about Mimi; remembering her and that lost love;
but also talking, then, about how life inevitably needs to go on, and how artistic
creation needs to go on, as well – now made painfully “richer” by the indelible
memory of Mimi, and of her loss. Because this opera is indeed called La Bohéme
– and such an ending would be true to actual bohemian life, and
to how tragedies, sufferings, gladness, rejoicing, are all part of,
and become incorporated in, the artistic life - and are then expressed in one’s artistic production.
***
Il Trovatore (2015)
Then, there was Anna Netrebko as Leonora – another superstar
of the opera. Regarding her (overall great) performance, what I noticed - or seemed to notice - at the
beginning, in Act One, was a certain “lack of effortlessness”. I am not sure
if I am right in this observation, or if I was just noticing the visible effort put in producing the purest sounds (and this effort was visible in some of the other
roles, as well, and I am thinking especially of Azucena / Dolora Zajick) – or
if it just took her a bit longer to warm into this specific performance (because this slight "straining" seemed to fade away, as the night went by).
Be it as it may, this did not take away from what was a thrills-filled, highly skilled, and overall beautiful
vocal performance from Netrebko - vocal performance that was also matched also by a passionate,
yet also fairly grounded, acting performance from her, as well.
The role of il trovatore (the troubadour of the title)
was sung by tenor Yonghoon Lee, who did a technically perfect job; really,
nothing was missing, and nothing went missing acting-wise, either. However, in
his case what I did miss was a bit of what the Germans call “Ausstrahlung” –
whose closest translation is probably “charisma”, but that would be too strong of
a word; rather, Ausstrahlung, as that inner "something" that radiates
outward from a person, drawing others’ attention, while also conferring a richness, uniqueness, and stand-out quality, to a person (to a character).
The troubadour’s (foster) mother in the story, the gypsy
Azucena, was played by mezzo-soprano Dolora Zajick - who at that time was 63
years old! And with what vigor, and persuasiveness, and poignancy, and
uninterrupted stamina she managed to play that role! – truly a marvelous thing to behold, given the size,
extensiveness, and intensity (in all regards) of the role!
About the opera in itself I would say that in acts
one to three the best portions, musically, are the ensemble pieces – for
example, those featuring the choir and several soloists (e.g. a trio). Such pieces occur several times in these acts, and Giuseppe Verdi seems to delight
in showcasing his creativity and skillfulness through them (to our great pleasure).
Overall, however, I would say that Act Four has the most memorable arias and lines (in solos, duets and trios). Moreover, from a
dramatic perspective as well, Act Four takes the cake, as this is where all the
narrative threads of the previous acts meet and, as it were, come to “fruition”
- of course, with devastating consequences. Because, as we know, this is not a
happy opera, not even a lightly-dramatic one; the tone, set from the beginning,
is one of terror (the story of the Count’s baby brother), even horror, and it remains grim and
unrelenting in its depiction of the evil impulses driving and wreaking havoc of the
characters.
In comparison, La Bohéme, which we discussed above,
is, yes, a drama (and even a tragedy) - yet is also permeated by a general air of,
well, “fun”, and by a certain “lightness of being” (as appropriate to its bohemian
nature); and all the characters there are likable! Not in Il Trovatore, though.
Here, the main emotions driving the characters are revenge, hatred, competition
(between furious rivals), and - yes – dark passion. All the characters are flawed - and aren’t we all? Yes, of course, but in these characters it is
precise these deep flaws, their unholy passions, that become the driving forces of
their misfortunate actions. Take Azucena, for example, who is tortured by her
past, half-delusional, even crazed; who loves, but loves enviously, her foster
son; and who – at the end of the day – only finds satisfaction in revenge
(and not in that motherly love). And the Count, of course! – he even
says (and I paraphrase): “the only God that I know and follow, is revenge”! Dark psyches, and violent and gloomy actions.
However, in my opinion all this should not mean that
the set design needs to be equally glum and grim - and yet it is thus. Made
simply of the two alternating sides (divided by a very tall wall) of a rotating stage, the simplicity
of the set is not, however, the issue; rather, the problem is its drabness, and its color palette (which is, basically, gray). Yes, even the costumes – the
exception being the military ones, like the ever-decorative soldier outfit
of Count Di Luna. In my opinion, the very tragic, violent, and dark story would
have been nicely and effectively counterbalanced (and, in a way, thus heightened)
by a colorful setting; not in an overly-abundant way, but with the use of some decisive,
clear colors. Moreover, these color choices could have also been used to better
define the characters; I am thinking, for example, about using plain violet for Azucena; white and red for Leonora; green for Manrico (the troubadour) - and so
on.
Speaking of the general direction of the piece, I would note that the director of
this production was the same Gary Halvorson who also directed Carmen
(discussed above). I make this aside because the same thing that I found distracting
and unnecessary there, was also present here; which just leads me to think that
it might as well be Mr. Halvorson’s mark; namely, the artless use of the erotic.
As discussed earlier, artistry resides in the creative means, in the inventiveness with which an artist is able to express (rather than show) something (let alone that
these erotic notes are nowhere in the script of the Il Trovatore, but were
added, because...? again, this is not a sign of complexity, but of a simpleness of one's imagination). To make it clear – passion can be (and is) beautiful, when expressed
artistically – and in that resides the art, in the skillfulness
with which an author manages to express something that is not visibly
(and even less vulgarly) shown.
But back to Act Four, which, I felt, was truly the
culmination of this piece, because in it both the music and the story were at
their most gripping, elevated, and engaging - for me. And the final line,
uttered by the gypsy Azucena, was truly like a dagger struck into the contorted
body of this narrative, of a story that has been “pushed around” so violently by
all those engaged, by their raging impulses and emotions. Indeed, I
found this ending, as designed by Verdi and by his librettist, Salvadore Cammarano,
really effective – even cathartic!
Originally, her partner in this performance was supposed to be another superstar,
Rolando Villazon – who, however, got sick before this specific performance. And
so it happened – and thus fate has it – that another tenor was thrust into the role,
and ended up being featured in the live broadcast, and also on the DVDs, Blu-Rays,
and CDs produced from it. And this tenor (seemingly at hand in another Met
role, at the time) more than - very much more than! - lived up to this occasion,
Piotr Beczala bringing a dashing, confident. vocally flawless performance;
truly a smash hit, a "leading" performance.
I also enjoyed Ildar Abdrazakov as Raimondo (the pastor,
played more like an Orthodox priest, which fit it well).
But I mentioned the set design – and I should mention also
the costumes; both fairly “classical”, conventional (for the period chosen - late nineteenth or early century, I
would say), and for the geo-cultural location (gloomy Scotland, as said). Yes, they
were all very appropriate and - especially the set design - very beautiful,
even. I would note here the setting in Lord Ashton’s drawing room (office),
with the “sun” sending its rays through the tall windows, which then played across the protagonists’ faces; and also the nice way in which this same set transitioned
(“behind the cover” of a slightly redundant duet) into the ceremonial room (ballroom?)
setting that followed. All in all, a beautiful, appropriate, and also appropriately wistful and
gloomy (but not unpleasantly so) décor, throughout.
And I should also mention some tremendously, tremendously
inventive and enjoyable character choreography, as well – reflecting what was going on,
or, more precisely, the “supernatural” elements of the story. I am thinking
here of the “mirror image” of the all-white ghost, in Act One, “communicating” in her silence with what Lucia says, and with Lucia herself (who is dressed in all black); and also the final apparition of Lucia di Lammermoor herself, now in all white, and also engaged in a mute, mirroring dialogue with the heart-broken, desperate, and “departing” Edgardo. Really nice scene choreographies – because they were expressive of what
was actually going on, in the given scene; neither adding too much, nor derailing the scene into
unnecessary directions; but fleshing it out, complementing, expressing, and beautifying it. (By the way, many of these scenes – just like several scenes from the other
operas discussed– are available on YouTube.)
And then there is Donizetti’s music; relentlessly... well,
fun, I would say (notwithstanding the subject matter), enjoyable, inventive – a
delight (listen to this sextet, for example)
So, at the end of the day (and of the performance) one is
moved, refreshed, delighted, through this combination of deep drama and
beautiful music; sensations somewhat different from the rather grim ones with
which one was left after the staging of Il Trovatore discussed above (which
was still enjoyable and engaging, as an opera - but still...) Yes - as said there
- there are many ways of doing a tragedy, and the juxtaposition of dark
storylines with colorful music or settings works better for me, than a
relentlessly glum, and thus rather monotonous, staging (even if it remains musically remarkable).
***
After all, the title of the piece is “Evgheni Onegin” – and
not, “Tatyana”. I think that this is important, and that it supports the perspective that I just suggested, and that I will explain below. And yet, and yet - the character of Evgheni
Onegin is introduced fairly late into the first act! – after we have already met, first,
Tatyana’s mother (the mistress of the house) and her nanny, and then Tatyana
and her sister.
So the opera starts with an enjoyable and meaningful discussion between Madame Larina (the mother) and the nanny, and they each have their parts to say about the difference between a young person's romantic idea of love, and the grown-up realization of the duties and responsibilities of marriage - about about where fate and life takes human beings, in general (the realities of life). This dialogue nicely sets the context for the tension between romantic love and dutiful marriage that will be one of the themes of the opera, while also rooting the story much deeper – both temporally, by anchoring it in the past, in the lived experience of these women; and also existentially, by making reference to the general human experience and to its perennial (yet also very "personal") questions. And it is precisely this breadth of the opera (or, to “put blame where blame is due”, of Alexander Pushkin’s poem, on which the opera is based) that I found tremendously appealing; its sweep, both human, cultural, and social – while, at the same thing, involving us in the very specific, personal and passionate stories of its interesting characters.
So the opera starts with an enjoyable and meaningful discussion between Madame Larina (the mother) and the nanny, and they each have their parts to say about the difference between a young person's romantic idea of love, and the grown-up realization of the duties and responsibilities of marriage - about about where fate and life takes human beings, in general (the realities of life). This dialogue nicely sets the context for the tension between romantic love and dutiful marriage that will be one of the themes of the opera, while also rooting the story much deeper – both temporally, by anchoring it in the past, in the lived experience of these women; and also existentially, by making reference to the general human experience and to its perennial (yet also very "personal") questions. And it is precisely this breadth of the opera (or, to “put blame where blame is due”, of Alexander Pushkin’s poem, on which the opera is based) that I found tremendously appealing; its sweep, both human, cultural, and social – while, at the same thing, involving us in the very specific, personal and passionate stories of its interesting characters.
Thus the opera starts by anchoring us in a deeper
conversation (about "things"), and only then introduces Tanya and her sister, Olga. And it is only
after we meet them, and after we get to know more about Tanya, and about her slightly
Bovarian and (still) immature personality – only thereafter, then, that we get to be
introduced to Lensky (their neighbor, the poet, who is also Olga’s fiancé), and to his
friend whom we brings to the women's house – namely, the Evgheni Onegin of the title (and who turns out to be a
prosaic, cynical, very “modern” fellow). Strange, isn’t it – that the titular
character would be introduced so late; so, the question is, why? My answer to
points precisely to the fact that the main conflict or drive of the opera
(of the poem) is not this or that unrequited love, but, on a broader canvas,
the tensions and conflicts between the various social and cultural forces present in early
modern Russia. But no, this is not a dry, didactic, or even
(horribile dictu!) political nonsense – no, this is a living story about people who are (for us) very much flesh and (boiling, passionate) blood.
And this broad socio-cultural and existential sweep, which happens
at the same time with, and is expressed through, very personalized (and personal) dramatic
stories, has quite the Dostoyevskian feel to it – at least to me (although, of
course, the poem’s author was Alexander Pushkin). Similarly, the initial
setting, at that country estate - where
nothing happens (thing emphasized by one of the ensemble songs, sung by all the
invitees - by all the landed gentry of the area)
- this “boredom”, this apparent lack of
the interesting – well, all this felt quite Chekhovian, very “Cherry Orchard”-like,
for me (although, of course, the writer is... Pushkin). This is not a matter of
falling into that puerile trap, of identifying everything “Russian” (which, in itself, is a vague attribute) with the major Russian authors that one might know (all
Russians being Dostoyevskian etc.); that would be nonsense, of course. But there is a
certain broader sweep - with references
to history, culture, to key human questions – that seems to be common for all
these authors; and there is also the fact that all these
authors belonged to (generally) the same era (although Pushkin was from the generation that preceded the other two - early nineteenth, as opposed to late nineteenth century).
And all these conflicts of early modernity - between various impulses, ways of thought,
and manners of life - seem to crest and to clash in the character of Evgheni Onegin – hence, in my reading, why it is he who gives the title
of the piece (and not Tatyana, for example). Thus we have this modern, slightly cynic
fellow, who is easily bored with said rural, stale life, and who desired the action-packed, modern life of the city (or, I assume, of the
imperial court) - namely, Evgheni Onegin. And here he is, entering that calm,
probably somewhat boring, somewhat dusty, rural estate (and rural life) in which Tanya
lives. Tatyana who, as said, is a slightly Bovarian, juvenile figure, at this point, living nourished on romantic books - and who will thus be all too easily inflamed by a sudden, passionate,
even rash devotion to this Onegin. This is what happens, then –Tanya sees Onegin,
and is engulfed by the flames of passion, of a very romantic love; and Onegin, in response, quite honorably, but also quite coldly, refuses her passionate
advances - explaining that the two of them could have no future together; not in the routine, in the boredom of a marriage lived on such a country estate. (And,
informed by what we know from Chekhov, it is hard not to agree with Onegin, to
a good degree...)
But the poem / opera takes the side of passion; and, perhaps,
of Romanticism; as opposed and as against the cold, calculating, utterly pragmatic, even utilitarian, individualistic, and perpetually unsettled (liberal) modernity of Onegin. And thus the second major conflict of the piece is
between Onegin and his (until then) very close friend, Lensky (the poet). And we already know from Lensky that they have always always been different, as – “I am a poet, and you are prose”. And yet, the real and tragic clash will take place only after Onegin (all
too facilely) plays with, and gambles away, his best friend’s trust and (ardent) passion.
And, after this tragic clash between Onegin and Lensky, that has disastrous consequences - we have a brief respiro, a transitional moment, on the sounds of Tchaikovsky’s
lovely Polonaise. And after that we come
back to find Evgheni, years later; now devoid of pleasure and feeling,
internally (still) devastated by what he had done (thoughtlessly, all too easily) against his
friend; and now finding all the hustle and bustle of life in fashionable society empty and utterly unsatisfying. And then we see Tatyana, who enters, now a fully grown woman, as Countess Gremin; and it is Onegin’s turn, at this moment,
to be engulfed by passion and to (rashly) write her an ardent letter (mirroring
her youthful behavior and the episode between the two from years before) – only to
find himself rejected, in the end, by Tanya (duty and honor, and marriage, conquering
guilty passion - she says). A very, very satisfactory ending.
And, throughout these events, we meet and become involved
with different characters, most of whom have their own important profile, story,
and things to say (and this is another feature that I really enjoyed).
For example, singer Larisa Shevchenko fully embodies the role of the Nanny
(Nyanya, Filippyevna) - giving us a lovable, thoroughly believable, and vocally impeccable
interpretation of that character. I would even say that this story (opera) would not be the same,
without her. The mother (the mistress of the estate), Madame Larin (interpreted
by Svetlana Volkova) is also a tridimensional character – remember how she
told us about her youth, about her past romantic nature, and about her later marriage - about how she changed? And even Count Gremin (embodied so well – what a
great choice of physical casting! – and sung quite stirringly by Sergei Alexashkin) -
he is introduced in Act Three, so in the last part of the piece; and yet, he
has a crucial aria, with important things to say, things through which we get
to know him, and through which the central conflict of the piece is also
further fleshed out. All these are examples of secondary, even
tertiary characters – or they would be that, and thus would be somewhat “flat”, in a different opera; and yet here they are full, living
beings, and important elements on the aforesaid canvas – that broad canvas
within which the passion and fullness and organic nature of the traditional
Russian lifestyle (as seen through the high Romantic prism of Pushkin) clashes
(or so it seems) with the coldness, individualism, unsettledness, and urbane
superficiality of modernity (or what we would call classical liberalism).
And this is why and how the opera is called “Evgheni Onegin”
– and not, say, “The Travails of Love”; because it is he who is the
tragic character, and not love itself – and not Tatyana (who, at the end
of the day and of the story, is actually happy in her settledness).
I already mentioned some names from the cast – and let me
point again here their excellent vocal performances, across the board. However,
I omitted to talk, until now, about the principal cast: opera superstars
Renée Fleming (with her buttery, classic, quite swoon-inducing soprano voice - as Tanya)
and Dimitri Hvorostovsky (as the titular character; an impeccable voice, and
also some excellent acting), Add to this the same tenor, Ramón Vargas, who was so dashing in La Bohéme, as Rodolfo (see above) - and who is impetuous, slightly naive, but also endearing
as the very romantic and very passionate young poet Lenski. And add also, conducting the
orchestra, the legendary Valery Gergiev! A stellar cast, in other words.
And, if all the aspects mentioned above were thoroughly, thoroughly
enjoyable and involving, let me also mention the aspect that I liked the least
about this particular staging of Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece – an aspect that has nothing
to do with either Tchaikovsky, or Pushkin's poem, or said individual singers. I am referring to the production design (the set). I was quite unimpressed, indeed,
by the intentional barrenness of this set; and I am thankful, in this case, that I got to enjoy
this opera as seen through the lens of the camera, and not there, in the opera
house (!); because, through a wise use of camera angles and perspectives, the cinematographer
was able to “fill” each take with characters and with action; fill it, this way,
because otherwise the gigantic, empty stage would have felt just that, "empty" -
and the people on it, small and a bit overwhelmed by all that empty space. No, I do
not think that these were wise choices – the way they chose to leave most of the
space empty, and to use just some pieces of decoration, in order to suggest different
locations etc.
But that being said, at the end of the day I can only be
happy and thankful - to Piotr Ilich Tchaikovsky
(and to Alexander Pushkin) for this new musical favorite – and to the stellar cast
for their excellent performances - and thus for quite an unforgettable, thrilling opera experience.
***
This, then, is the story - or were the stories - of my week-long trip through worlds, times, and music, facilitated by the exquisite productions of the Metropolitan Opera (and by their free broadcasting to the wide public).
No comments:
Post a Comment