The Category of Joy (6)

And...

6. Joy as Resurrection

This is – famously – the very last part of Georg Friedrich Händel’s oratorio, Messiah; and the story is that, after composing this piece, Handel came out of his study and said, “I have seen [or experienced] Heaven!” Now, one could put this (his exclamation) down to a sort of aesthetic exaggeration; and, yes, the story is apocryphal. However, the fact is that I do find this final “Amen” chorus to be a most moving and powerful figuration of the Resurrection – or, more accurately and precisely, of what follows after the Resurrection – of life, eternal and glorious.

Of course, the entire work, Messiah, is a monumental feat of artistic genius. Musically, of course! – but what I am referring to here is its very core concept, of using only (or mostly) texts that are not from the Gospels, in order to tell the story... of the Gospels. In other words, using texts mostly from the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible) - to tell the story of the life of Christ (which is the central story of the New Testament), from his birth, to his death and resurrection. To tell an entire, momentous story, using only (or mostly) indirect language... prefiguration, metaphor, analogy, prophetic language – what a feat of artistic (and spiritual) inspiration! But I did not come to praise Handel – although that is most deserved, certainly – but to give a little bit of a background, which might help contextualize that very last chorus, “Amen”.

So, back to the chorus, let’s ask ourselves what does this word "amen" (of Jewish origin) actually signify? Well, in brief, it is an expression, affirmation and confirmation that something truly is; a “yes”, a “verily”, a “truthfully so” given to... well, to what is this “yes” given, in the oratorio? In the Messiah, the “Amen” chorus follows right after a piece that intones, “Worthy Is the Lamb”: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing... for ever and ever.” In other words, the “Amen” chorus is preceded and prepared by a brief restatement of the death (on a cross) of the Lamb - and by a statement of the victory of the Lamb over said death (victorious act that is usually expressed through the word, "resurrection").

And what does this word, “resurrection”, mean? Etymologically, it means to rise again (in Latin: resurgere) – or, to rise from the dead (in Church Latin: resurrectionem). And what is “death”? It is, apparently, the radical opposite, the sworn enemy, the end and the destruction, of life.  But! - not here! – as here the Lamb that was slain passes from life temporal – through death – to life eternal (through the act of Resurrection). Thus, “O Death, where is thy sting?”, sing the soloists, in a preceding section of the oratorio... The “amen” that comes at the very end of the oratorio, therefore, does not mark the "end" of the story of Christ - but is a repeated and confirmed affirmation of the fact that there is no end.

The meaning and the aftermath of the act of the Resurrection is, then, the definitive and ultimate victory of life, over death –. and the repeated “amen!” is given to that victory of life. And, listening to this chorus, we hear the musical lines (sung, as it were, by millions upon millions...) flowing up and down, swelling, overtaking each other, overflowing - “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” – an eternalized crescendo of the eternal joy of the victory of life, eternal and glorious. “Amen”, then, becomes an expression of the unending joy of witnessing and of partaking in Life, eternal - in being, accomplished and fulfilled.

As we have seen in the previous installments of our investigation, the state of joy seems to be associated, in a deep way, with being - with the plenitude and the full manifestation of our being. Resurrection, on the other hand, is precisely the definitive victory of being - over and against what apparently is its very opposite, death (and, more broadly, over finiteness, imperfection, temporality, misery...) And this is why I have proposed this equivalence, of “joy as Resurrection” - and why I have used, as illustration, the final chorus from Handel's Messiah – because this final “Amen” seems to be an expression of the joy of Being - Being unending, glorious, victorious.

Indeed, I find this “Amen” chorus so uplifting and moving because it proclaims the eternal victory of Being - through the continuous, repeated, magnificent – joyous – affirmation of the simple yet powerful expression: “IT IS” (“amen”).

***

And thus we have reached the end (almost) of our inquiry into the category of joy. What remains to be done, still, is to review and to conclusively summarize what we have learned from this week- (or Octave-) long investigation; and that is what we will do in tomorrow’s, final installment of this modest series.

The Category of Joy (5)

What is joy? Continuing our investigation...

5. Joy as Sacrifice

At first sight (and not just at first sight), these terms seem incongruous. And, if someone is familiar with Mother Teresa of Calcutta’s experience of the “dark night of the soul”, the picture below might seem slightly inadequate, as well.

What could this mean, then – this, “joy as sacrifice”? Well, let’s just think of the example of the grandmother, as discussed in yesterday’s installment of our little investigative series – who was the “giver” in that relationship of unconditional love, which the receiver lived out as (a condition of) joy; and let us remember that we asked ourselves then whether “joy” might actually be found (felt) at that giver’s end, as well, and not just at the receiver’s. How can we answer that question? Well, what do we know about the “giver” of unconditional love? We know that such giving of (and from) the self is – or implies, inevitably - an act of self-denial, of self-sacrifice – and that, as such, it also incurs, inevitably, pain, as well. So why does the grandmother do that? Out of love, would be the immediate answer – yet this is no sentimental, fluffy, romantic love, but the actual, harsh love of self-giving (giving of the self, and from the self). And, being an act of true love, there is in it – or behind it, beneath it -  a deep sense of joy, as well, a joy that is associated with living out what appears to be the vocation of the human being – which is, essentially, the giving of the self to(ward) the other. (Note that the same act of self-gift, but in reciprocal form, is what constitutes that “unity of man and woman” that was discussed in yet another earlier episode of this series).

It seems therefore that sacrifice is an aspect, or element – perhaps the visible one, the one that we perceive most readily – of what is, at a deeper level, existentially, a mysteriously joyous (?) act of self-gift (“self-gift” that is the true meaning of “love” – far from the sappy, romantic, sentimental, even self-seeking mis-understanding of the concept).

And now let us look at this thing from yet another angle, using the video below, which is taken from a documentary, Into Great Silence, which presents (with little to no commentary) the daily life of the Carthusian monks of La Grande Chartreuse (in France). It should be noted that the Carthusian order is among the so-called “strictest” contemplative orders; for example, the monks spend most of their days – even their time together, at meals or at work - in silence.

But here the aforementioned notion of “strictness” necessitates some further elaboration - and, in order to do that, let’s start by asking, “who are these monks, and why are they there?” The answer is that these are men (from different walks of life, originally, and of different origins) who have voluntarily decided to turn away from “the world”, from the temporal, in order to dedicate themselves completely, bodily and spiritually, their entire time, and life, to God. The aforementioned “strictness” of the order, therefore, is not some externally imposed, arbitrary, nonsensical rule – but it is the personal choice of each of them, to renounce the things that, in their eyes, represent a lesser or a partial good (of the world, of the temporal order), for a greater, eternal good (of God). Here is another excerpt from the same documentary, in which one of the monks talks about how their choice is, in fact, for happiness - a greater happiness.

I have chosen these examples in order to exemplify “the other side”, as it were, of sacrifice. Indeed, their style of life, of these monks, and their discipline, will seem – for many of us – very hard, even harsh; that, indeed, is the “sacrifice” part. And yet this sacrifice is but a means and a path toward what is considered by them a greater goal, a truer end – which is not dissimilar to how in marriage one in fact renounces (a sacrifice) all other possible options, all other persons – in favor of only one person - in the name of a truer and greater love. See below a short snippet (just some seconds, really) from the trailer of a movie, Of Gods and Men, which recounts the true story of a group of Trappist monks from Algeria, from the monastery of Tibhirine; in this very short sequence, an older monk, while in conversation with a young woman from the village, explains that he has known human love (which is a good), but that he has given up that kind of love, for a greater love (i.e. for Love itself).

[that sequence starts at 1:01]

Can there be, then, deep joy in sacrifice? It seems that there is - but not in a superficial, light, easy way. Instead, that deep joy seems to be the specific counterpart of a certain kind of sacrifice – one that is life-pursuing, life-searching, and life-giving. It seems also that this deep joy is associated with – and might arise from - choosing what we start to grasp as the truth of our being - while sacrificing what is only apparently or temporarily (or perhaps selfishly) so. Meanwhile, however, all of this does not remove the sting and the pain of the act of sacrifice. And yet – at least within this temporal human condition – it seems that sacrifice is almost a necessary corollary, even an inevitable condition - for the pursuit of that deeper joy.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? Well, yes, just like Good Friday is the necessary, inevitable, paradoxical path and condition – for experiencing the joy of Resurrection; so much so, that there is no resurrection without the cross. And what is “resurrection”, if not the experience of the plenitude, fullness, and accomplishment of being? But more on these, later.

And, not to leave our initial reference to Mother Teresa somehow open-ended, and inconclusive – and to further explain my initial choice of using her picture – all of this might also reflect how, in Mother Teresa's case, her inner “dark night of the soul” (her inner sacrifice, suffering) became, when turning toward us, the image and the face of unconditional love and inexpressible joy – in a very real way, for so many of us!  But these are not easy things...

So let us conclude by remarking how the state of joy that we are investigating seems to be very different from, and utterly unlike, the easy, superficial state of “having a good time”, or of “being happy” - understood as self-centered satisfaction. Indeed, we see yet again that joy seems to be an essentially outward- and other-oriented state – perhaps because our very being is essentially dialogical, and open toward the other / the Other. Finally, it seems - again - that this state of joy corresponds to a living out of - with a living according to - the truth of our being.

The Category of Joy (4)

Continuing our Easter Octave investigation into the various possible aspects, or meanings, or manifestations, of the state of joy, today let us talk about:

4. Joy as Unconditional Love

As you can see below, in order to illustrate this meaning of the concept of joy, I have chosen the image of a grandmother’s hand, holding her grandchild's hand. I am sure that, for some, an even better representation would be that of a mother’s hand, holding her child’s hand – and that is perfectly fine. There are various reasons for using this image, from my perspective – and one of them is that I consider that a grandmother’s love possesses an added dimension of frailty and vulnerability - of a love given, as it were, without authority – and thus, of gratuitousness - of unconditionality.

Still, this equivalence (and this concept, of unconditional love) is not without difficulties – first of all, because we implicitly tend to look at unconditional love from the perspective of the receiver (because this is how, instinctively, we associate it with the state of joy). But what corresponds to this “at the other end”, of the giver - a “giver” that gives so deeply, without holding back - is there also “joy”? Perhaps we should talk about this in another installment of our modest investigative series. For now, though, let us be satisfied with, and “joyous” because of, benefiting – as receivers– from this unconditional love, and let us look at the concept from this perspective.

Here again, though, we notice that the concept continues to pose difficulties - and I am referring to the fact that unconditional love, instead of being joy, seems rather to provide the condition for joy. What do I mean? Well, let’s take the example of a child (of the grandchild), for whom, more often than not, (the) unconditional love (of a grandmother) passes completely unobserved, being perceived as a natural condition of being, as normality. Later in life, of course, the ex-child will discover that nothing just is – and that what they experienced once as a given, as normality. was in fact something created, sustained, and offered to them, by someone else – mostly, without them observing. But back then, when they were at the receiving end, these children were like fish in the water, basking and swimming in it without care, unawares and unbothered by thinking about the necessary conditions... for the existence of water. And, just like said body of water, unconditional love is life-giving, life-sustaining and life-caring – even if the stupid fish seem to know nothing about it.

Thus, unconditional love seems to provide the condition for being to be - freely, in its natural state - with some good and not so good behavior, with straying and with coming back etc. You know – like the animal, in its natural habitat, doing what the animal does.

Unconditional love is thus connected with joy by being the underlying condition that allows, or that provides, for being to exist. Or, if it is joy, this unconditional love, it is that only at a deeper level, or in a deeper way; for example, at the level of a glorious summer afternoon of play from our childhood – in which we were busy with the rush and with the give-and-take of the play, with all its screams and chases, agitation and laughter – all the while not knowing and not observing that the glorious summer afternoon was – so normal, so everyday-like it all seemed. Unconditional love is like that afternoon – it is, so that we can be.

Later on, during adulthood, the former child will learn to distinguish and to notice the presence of such glorious summer afternoons - by learning to experience their absence. To put it differently, the adult will gradually learn to think about receiving unconditional love – especially in what concerns interhuman relations – as well-nigh a miracle, its possibility so remote as to be effectively dismissed (unless it is received from their still-living grandmother - or mother etc.). Until, of course, it is this adult’s turn (if it ever comes) to give that sort of unconditional love – perhaps as a grandparent - modestly, unknown, self-giving; but that, again, is a different side of the story.

To conclude, unconditional love seems to be the thing that provides the condition and the possibility for being - to be, to manifest itself, to flourish, freely. It is therefore associated with “joy” inasmuch as it seems to provide the condition (remember: life-giving, life-caring, life-maintaining) for the plenitude of being (to manifest itself); and, as this investigation proceeds, we seem to associate  - more and more - the state of joy with a state of plenitude of being. 

Unconditional love – then – makes being possible – and thus makes joy possible.

The Category of Joy (3)

Let us continue our investigation into various hypostases of the state of joy, by talking about:

3. Joy as Marriage

What in the world could this mean? Well, if the term “laughter” necessitated clarifications, this term (and this equivalence) surely does, as well. In order to do that - to look into the ways in which “marriage” corresponds to and is expressive of “joy” - I will employ as a visual aid the following image, of a statuary group from the Cathedral of St. Matthew in Washington, DC.

the betrothal of Joseph and Mary
(by Vincenzo Demetz, Italy; installed 1961)

So, in what manner would the term “joy” find its manifestation – or one of its manifestations - in “marriage”? Gazing at this image of the betrothal of Mary and Joseph, one is struck (or I am, at least) by a sense of “peace”, of settledness, of “things being right” (impression that is, of course, supported by our contextual knowledge about this couple). Indeed, marriage – that covenant or sacred bond between two people, endeavored before God (see the enlarged image of the chapel, below) – is, according to John Paul II (in his commentary on the book of Genesis) reflective (in its original state) of the perfection and unity of God.

How does that work? Well, according to the mythical story of the Book of Genesis (“mythical”, in the sense that its main concern is not with relating “historical events”, but with revealing some essential truths about the nature and the condition of the human beings), after God created the human being (in Hebrew, adam - which is not a person’s name, but a general term denoting human beings, without determination of sex), the resulting human being looked around and “saw”  that he was as yet unaccomplished, incomplete – that it was alone. In consequence – so the mythical story goes, revealing additional information about the nature of the human beings - God put adam in a deep sleep, and then out of this adam He made man (in Hebrew, ish) and woman (in Hebrew, ishah). Then and thus - and only then and thus - was the creation of the human being accomplished:

“God created mankind in his image;

in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.” (Gen 1:25)

In other words, the perfectly accomplished creation of the human being, in the image of God (i.e. reflecting His perfection, goodness, and unity), is only accomplished in this “original unity of ish (man) and ishah (woman)”. And “[t]hat is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.” (Gen. 2:24) – i.e. thus, marriage. According to this Jewish-Christian understanding, then, marriage is a sacred covenant through which the man and the woman live out, together - and, in a way, re-enact - that original harmony and perfection of the original human condition – even if now only imperfectly, and in a flawed manner.

Thus, the image above, of the very Jewish wedding of Mary and Joseph (see, to the right, the young man who leaves, seemingly disappointed, while breaking a stick on his knee - which is a sign, according to Jewish customs, of being a rejected suitor of the bride), seems to embody and to reflect such a moment and state  - which connects them (and us) with, and which re-enacts, that original state of unity and harmony (of the creation of man, in the image of God, accomplished in the unity of ish and ishah). As such, what one “gets” from looking at this statuary group is a sense of peace, of “things being right”, of the world “being set aright” - of all the puzzle pieces finally falling into place, for once.

And it is in this sense that I identify in marriage another manifestation of - and thus set of meanings for – the existential state of joy. Joy, as a deep living out of our being being “at right”; of us being in the right place and in the right condition; before God, who is the source of our (and of all) being.

Note also that marriage is – naturally and essentially - a social, dialogical act; that this state of harmony and peace is attained (or aimed at, imperfectly) only through the common act of two persons, an act that binds them; that it is this covenant in which they enter, together, that endows them (as a couple) with the perfection (again, imperfectly lived out) that we were talking about (the image of the original unity and perfection of the human being). Thus we see, yet again, that joy seems to be a state that is essentially social, or at least fundamentally open toward the other - just like the human being itself is essentially open to - and in need of - the other.

The “Wedding Chapel”
(Cathedral of St. Matthew, Washington, DC)

The Category of Joy (2)

Let us continue our Easter Octave investigation on the category of joy.

2. Joy as Laughter

This dimension requires some work and clarification, as it is quite easy to confuse things, with regard to this term. For example, there is that shallow, self-centered “live, laugh, love” (appalling and unappealing); there is the somewhat “mechanical” understanding of "laughter" as “joking”, or as “telling jokes”; and there is a kind of meaningless, empty laughter, behind which one finds no self, but only superficiality; and there is also the very broad category of humor, much too broad to be used, in its entirety and indiscriminately, in association with this concept of “laughter” - and so on, and so on.

So, what do I mean, then, by laughter, as an expression of that state of joy? To exemplify what I mean, I have appended below a compilation video with scenes from (French comedian) Louis de Funès’ films about “the gendarme of St Tropez”. (This is, of course, only an example, not familiar to everyone – but one can find examples that are more suited to one’s particular experience.) However, the reason why I am using the work of Louis de Funès, and specifically this series of films, is because for me they embody some of the essence of that joyous laughter that I am trying to describe. Namely, that kind of liberating, childlike (not childish), freeing laughter, which raises one’s self out of - and above - the weight of sublunar existence.

Levity – yet not understood as “frivolity”, but in a sense closer to its etymological and historical meanings: as “lightness”, as that force that opposes gravity (as the term was used in pre-modern science) – an expression of freedom from petty, burdensome temporality. This is not, therefore, Kundera’s “unbearable lightness of being” (which actually represents a diminution in being); instead, it is an affirmation of being, of the dignity and transcendence of the human self, over and against the shackles of the sublunar, of the historical, of the material, even.

This is the laughter of children at play (seen quite unsentimentally), and also of grown-ups at play (for example, at a pick-up soccer game, in the afternoon). It is good-natured, good-humored, and well-disposed (with amiable feelings) toward the others – while, at the same time, not taking oneself, nor the others, nor life (in its intra-historical meaning) too seriously. It is thus revivifying and refreshing of the self.

Overall, it is an expression of the love of existence, of the joy of existence – and therefore a manifestation of joy, where joy is a state that expresses the plenitude of being.

***

At the end of the week, we will synthesize what we have learned from all these individual posts (on the various aspects or dimensions of joy), into one summary conclusion (of sorts) of our "investigation" into the category of joy.

The Category of Joy (1)

Joy is not the same as “having fun”, nor is it about “having a good time”; it is not the same as humor (per se), nor is it (worse still!) about joking, telling jokes. I mention these counterexamples because I have been witness to occasions when joy should have been present – and yet, because of an apparent loss of the very capacity to understand what joy is, as a distinct state of existence, joy was replaced, approximated, feebly attempted, through “telling jokes”, or through efforts at “having fun”. A sad and strange state of affairs, this, and one peculiar (seemingly) to our time and to a certain civilisational milieu.

Resurrection (illuminated manuscript,
c.1492-1503, British Library)

What is joy, then? Well, I have decided to use this Easter Octave (the eight days following the Sunday of the Resurrection, which are meant to be experienced as a sort of a temporal extension of that day) as an occasion to investigate the category of joy (the Easter Octave being supposed to be - exceptionally so - a period of lived joy). And I will pursue this investigation - without any pretensions at exhaustiveness, nor even at utter precision - by looking at different types, or manifestations, or exemplars, of lived joy. Poor and approximated examples, necessarily - because I can only be sure of what I, personally, experience... not what others experience, and why, and how.

And I am indeed persuaded – and thus I start from this assumption – that joy is a category of being, a state of existence; and not something that we do, a category of actions, nor something to be achieved, conquered, made... Rather, it seems to me (at this point, at least – at the beginning) that joy is something like a fine-tuning of our existence to the very truth of our being. But let’s not jump ahead - let’s just look at different examples (or manifestations) of joy (as an existential experience), with the goal of better understanding the specific elements and attributes of this category, hopefully obtaining, at the end, a clearer contour and delineation of what this state of being might be and might entail.

Before I begin, however, let me repeat again the disclaimer - that this is only an act of investigation, and that I don’t know exactly what will result from it. Yes, it does start from some intuitions, which are rooted (of course) in certain experiences; but this whole attempt is and will remain, modestly, just an attempt – both in its means and possibilities, and in its aims.

1. Joy as Creation

Joy as, or in, the act of creation; and I will use here an example – seemingly almost spontaneous – of artistic creation (or expression; which is basically the same thing). Artistic creation seems to come from an inner need, from an existential need - of expression. Another attribute that seems to pertain intrinsically to artistic creation is freedom – not understood as unruliness (or lack of rules; oh, no!), but freedom as the possibility for the expression of being. (There is a scene in the movie, The Lives of Others, in which a secret police specialist describes how destroying the capacity of the artist to create, is the best and surest method – and thus the cruelest, isn’t it? – of destroying their very being. It's like stopping a bird from singing.)

“Expression of being” means expressive of a genuine need – and thus, inherently self-effacing and modest, and not aimed at self-laudatory exhibitionism. At the same time, the artistic expression is inherently directed at others, is dialogic - even if only potentially, or virtually: like when a composer composes (for a future audience, which might never exist), or when a musician rehearses (and the listeners are present, simultaneously, in his head).

Happy Mondays: The Greatest Hits (5)

Continuing our discussion about the discography of the British indie band, Happy Mondays, we are now at the point where we need to cover their collaboration with Bob Mortimer - whom you might already know from his collaboration with Chris Rea on the Let's Dance single, which they made together in support and in celebration of Middlesbrough FC's participation in the FA Cup final. in 1997 (both of them being from Middlesbrough, originally).

***

Much of what I just just said - or some of it - is, of course, untrue. But what is true? Well, Bob Mortimer is true and is real - as hard as that might be to fathom, at times. But what is true about him, specifically? Well, therein lies the question, doesn't it; the question that has preoccupied - nay, that has torn - the participants on the Would I Lie to You panel show, on the episodes featuring Bob. (I have described the premise of WILTY, and the genre of British panel shows, here; to synthesize, WILTY's essence is that, given two teams of comedians / entertainers / public figures, somebody from one team will read, from a card that they have never seen before, a story about something that presumably has happened to them; then, the members of the other team will need to figure out whether that story is true, or whether it was a lie; hence, "would I lie to you?". It sounds simple, but it gets hilarious.)

But what is it, that would set Bob Mortimer apart amid the constellation of entertaining, witty, and amusing guests who have populated the previous seasons of the show? Well, I think that it is what I would call the Whimsical and Wondrous World of Bob Mortimer's Life and Times. Let's start from the fact that Bob is a natural-born comedian and entertainer - the "funny bone" is actually his very marrow, and humor seems to alive at the core of his very being. There is also a childlike quality to him, and to his humor; a sense of wonder and amazement, and a pure eagerness to find the funny in everything - in words, situations, people etc. (see the rainbow variety of his quips on WILTY - links below). Finally, he seems to have had - and to continue to live - a quite wondrous and elfin life, populated with peculiar but homely characters, and with somewhat unexpected paths and choices. (Although you will have to figure out which of his stories are actually true...). And there is also a very down to earth, specifically British quality to his life-stories - which are people and place specific, and are rooted in a regular (albeit ever-so-slightly slightly fantastic, like, say, a hobbit) British bloke existence.

Enjoy, then, the samples below - as another installment within our Happy Mondays series, which (as the title maybe, probably, surely implies) is meant to make our Mondays  - just a bit cheerier.


the legendary episode featuring Jerry Dungarees and Gary "Cheesy" Cheeseman




wherein we discover that Bob is the fourth-born of four male siblings - which has certain implications
[note: in this exercise, a person is brought in, and the members of one of the teams need to convince the other team that this unknown person is related to them, that it is part of their story)




this one actually features Chris Rea




seriously, though?



And you can enjoy more Bob-based delight here and here - collections that also includes other famous Bob stories, but also a variety of Mortimerian quips and contributions. And, of course, stay tuned for future editions (seasons) of WILTY (because if those will not feature Bob Mortimer as a guest on some of the episodes, then they will have just lost their wits).

Opera, in a Time of Cholera (A Travelogue)

The pretext for this discussion is the excellent and gracious initiative of the Metropolitan Opera of New York, to broadcast for free (at least for one week) some of their sumptuous opera productions. These are the same opera broadcasts that many of us have gotten to know so well, through the "Live in HD" Met initiative; yes, because it has happened that I have driven hours to see these live broadcasts, in a movie theater; and, short of being there, at the opera house, there is nothing better than watching them live on the large screen. In fact, it might even be a bit better, at least in some ways – because of the high production values of these HD broadcasts, in terms of camera work (framing, the use of perspective, the close-ups), of the sound (surround, Dolby etc.); in any case, certainly providing a “closer” look at the protagonists and at the action than would be possible if one would attend these in person. And the thrill – the thrill! – of watching a live performance! Given the level of complexity and difficulty, the high artistry of what one is watching, this is akin to holding your breath when watching a high-wire or a trapeze act  - as, at any moment, disaster may ensue.

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

This 2009 Met production of Carmen featured in the main roles Elina Garanča (Carmen) and Roberto Alagna (Don Jose), both of them bringing vocal and actorly excellence to this performance. Alagna has made this a signature role for him (it seems), and I was thrilled to, in fact, discover his masculine voice (as I have not followed his career closely). Nonetheless, it was Elina Garanča who truly elevated the entire production, with a fiery, “raging”, and vocally well-nigh perfect performance. “Raging”, because this opera is driven, to a large degree, by the tempest that is the heroine of the title – the gypsy, Carmen. As Garanča put it (in the entracte interview with Renée Fleming), Carmen is like a ping-pong ball, bouncing around and scattered (temperament- and behavior-wise) all over the place - once here, once there. Indeed! - and it is thrilling to see this typical fickleness being portrayed on stage; and also those half-silly, half-dramatic lovers’ quarrels, that we all know and love to hate. Roberto Alagna is a worthy companion to Garanča sparkling presence, in the sense of pairing her performance with that of a volcanic, intensely torn Don José; that being said, I would still remark that, both vocally and acting-wise, Garanča’s performance was the transcendent one in this show.

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)

The highlights of this production are the cast – featuring, in the main roles, Angela Gheorghiu (as Mimi), and Ramón Vargas (as Rodolfo) – and, equally prominently, a legendary production  design from none other than Franco Zeffirelli (who passed away earlier this year). Let’s start with this latter feature - because it is, indeed, remarkable: lavish, yet restrained to what is needed; detailed, but purpose-oriented. Moments that stood out for me: when the curtain rises for Act Three, and one starts feeling cold, while instinctively perceiving also what poverty in wintertime might mean. Or Act Two, which offers us... a town square! a whole town square, or so it seems to us (through the use of large set elements, and also of the power of perspective). Meanwhile, Act One and Act Four transport us to the attic, bohemian apartment of the four artists (the poet, the painter, the musician, and the philosopher); quaint, messy, friendly, bachelor-like – yet with quite some charm. And in Act Four we see this apartment as if suspended over the background of the roofs of the city of Paris. I should also note here the color tonalities – variations of earthly tones - both for the buildings and for the clothes; and yet, never mono-tone, never depressing, but alive and lively. Or how about that detail that I suddenly caught myself noticing, with surprise, in Act Three – that, "look, it is snowing”! And what I mean by this is that it was snowing (artificially, of course), but that it was done so well, and it fit so much with the cold, wintry atmosphere, that it took me a while to become conscious of it - of the fact that it was artifice, that it was artificial snow. What Zeffirelli showed with this production design, then, is that one can be both modern and period-appropriate, detailed but not baroque, thorough yet not overbearing.

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)

Perhaps we should start this discussion by talking about Dmitri Hvorostovsky (Count Di Luna, in this opera), whose sheer entrance on the stage was received with a wall of applause and cheers by the audience – partly because he had just announced, a few months before, that he had been diagnosed with brain cancer. (And indeed, he did pass away only two years later, in 2017.) Of course, his presence is not to be noted, or notable, only because of that; but it is clear that this fact also elevated the emotional import of the evening. But no, he is not to be noted – or notable – just because of that, as his performance in this show was, as expected, exquisite (as fitting for one of the great stars of the opera; and, to become a star, as a baritone, is not the easiest thing to do) - his voice clear, decisive, powerful, and most delighting.

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!

***

Lucia di Lammermoor (2009)

Appropriately, the opera starts in a very Macbethian setting: brooding, overcast, shades of dark and grey – very Scottish. There is indeed a Macbethian feel to it, to this tragedy of unthinking passions; of unquenched (clan-like) thirst for revenge; of frailty, violence and (in the end) madness. And I liked Anna Netrebko more here, in this piece, than in Il Trovatore (discussed above), and I think that this dramatic-lyrical voice part, and the dramatic weight of the acting role, fit her better than the part there (or maybe she was just in a different form). In any case, Netrebko delivers a thoroughly believable and involving Lucia (the Lucia di Lammermoor of the title); from the girlish silliness, yet with some slips of the mind into the supernatural, of the first act - to the undone protagonist of the last act (blood splattered, having committed a murderous act – and yet, indeed, still endearing in her lostness, and with her tragic fate).

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).

***

Evgheni Onegin (2007)

In his introduction to the broadcast, the “host”, Mikhail Baryshnikov (yes!) explained that this Tchaikovsky opera is, essentially, about “love unrequited”. I beg to differ; or, to be more accurate, I beg to see its depth and richness as lying in other aspects – or, in a grander and deeper perspective, which it affords for us, not only about issues of love and marriage, but also about the Russian society (and its culture, and the human types populating it) at a time when modernity was beginning to make its mark upon it (early nineteenth century). 

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.

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.

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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).