When I visited St. Petersburg last May, the Mariinsky 2 was still a work zone. Now it’s open. The new building is undistinguished and even quite ugly from the outside. I haven’t seen the inside yet. But I did write about the controversy over its site, cost and design in this month’s issue of Opera News. A chance to look at the deep authoritarian habits of mind that still rule so much of Russian culture.
Tag Archives: Opera
There’s a lot of discussion at the moment about the future of opera, whether it’s trending to a diminished state, with major companies economizing and falling back on a limited repertory of war horses, or thriving in new formats, new venues and new companies, in a post-Grand Opera sort of way. I’m in Santa Fe right now for the opera season, which is spectacular in the way I remember opera could be spectacular when I first fell in love with the art form: great repertoire, great singing, smart direction and passionate audiences. But I do fear we are entering an age in which the serious opera lover finds less and less to delight him, unless he goes to places such as Santa Fe or a handful of other companies where commitment to serious opera is pursued without embarrassment. I tackled some of these issues in a piece for Opera News, which the magazine has kindly posted online. Here’s a nugget of my futurist musings:
Indeed, one can imagine both futures simultaneously, a two-tiered opera world in which the vast majority of the population knows the form only in its digital simulacrum, while an eccentric elite of antiquarians persists in the old ways.
Photo credit: Robert Reck (Courtesy Santa Fe Opera)
In last month’s issue of Opera News, I took up the issue of interpreting Wagner, in particular, the mania for ever more far-fetched ideological reinterpretations. I argue that Wagner locked future audiences into a rigidly “avant garde”-centric relationship to his art, and it’s now become a matter of diminishing returns:
[Wagner] created the intellectual construct for the ongoing reinterpretation of his work. Die Meistersinger isn’t just a comedy; it creates a template for how audiences should relate to Wagner’s music. In a conflict between philistinism and innovation, the opera invites us to identify with Walther’s brand of artistic progressivism. The conflicts in the Ring between Siegmund and Hunding, and Siegfried and Wotan, echo this basic appeal, enlisting audience sympathies on the side of rebellion and iconoclasm. Wagner, in effect, drafts us into the ongoing drama of his art — the notion that to love Wagner appropriately is to hate artistic complacency, traditionalism and bourgeois ideas about entertainment.
What to do about it? I borrow ideas from Susan Sontag and raise the possibility (far-fetched, I’m sure) of staging the Ring cycle without a director:
It would also be a more profoundly democratic Ring, a Ring developed by consensus. Chamber musicians regularly work this way, and even some orchestras have developed means for “interpreting” through consensus. Singers, of course, don’t have time for this kind of work, and the results could easily be a crazy quilt of discordant ideas. But it would be a fascinating exercise — a Ring developed not through the old, autocratic means of the director’s oversight (an antiquated model of leadership in almost all walks of life that don’t involve art or actual political tyranny) but through new, horizontal and socially networked avenues of decision-making.
Don’t hold your breath of course. It costs too much to stage the Ring to take any real risks.
As Newt Gingrich rises in the polls, it’s worth putting one little item on the table of public discourse: He loves opera. In Washington, lots of people love opera, but it’s rare for politicians with national ambitions to love it so publicly and openly as Gingrich has in the past. As anyone who attends the Washington National Opera–now the official opera company of the Kennedy Center for the Arts–can attest, he’s often there, especially on big gala occasions. That puts him in company with several Supreme Court justices, including Antonin Scalia and Ruther Bader Ginsburg. But Supremes have lifetime appointments, which makes it considerably safer to love opera in the open. Gingrich is still looking for benediction from the national electorate, which makes his embrace of the Irrational Art Form all the more daring. How will it play out? When someone asks the inevitable question about what kind of music he likes, will Gingrich say Verdi, Puccini and Mozart? Or will he and his people attempt to sequester the opera lovin’ data point in the same category as the former Speaker’s taste for big ticket items at Tiffanys?
It’s also possible that his love of opera could reinforce his public persona as an intellectual. Opera is for smart people, of course. Not likely. The base probably doesn’t much care about Rigoletto, Rheingold or Radamisto, and there’s a difference between seeming smart (having ideas) and seeming cultured.
The real question, for opera lovers, is what kind of opera does Gingrich love. Italian? German? French? Early Instruments? Regietheatre? Or classic old-guard production? Is he a soprano man? Or more inclined to the bass and baritone roles? These questions matter.
Fanboys are not always boys, and they’re not exclusively male. They are fanatical, deeply knowledgeable about their obsessions (sci-fi, video games, anime, comics), and when they talk shop, they do not suffer fools gladly. They are the warrior-elites of what is often called “geek culture,” which is not, in the end, all that different from the culture of opera-lovers.
And I find a few things that opera educators might envy about the more contentious, wild and vibrant world of fanboys:
I don’t hold up fanboy culture as an ideal. But there are two valuable beliefs innate to their world that seem to have leeched out of the opera world: they equate knowledge with participation and pleasure; and they don’t expect anyone to educate them. The professional opera world often seems devoted to the very opposite of these two propositions.
This leads to a discussion of how people “self-educate,” and whether opera educators might learn from existing patterns of self-education, rather than try to institute old educational models. You can find the whole thing here.
When the Romanian theater director Andrei Şerban produced Gounod’s Faust at the Metropolitan Opera in 2005, he took an opera that thrives on intimate encounters and recast it as non-stop spectacle, a wild carnival of excess and distraction. It was a striking contrast to his quarter-century old production of Puccini’s Turandot, which turned one of the grandest of Italian operas into a chamber piece, enacted in an almost claustrophobic theater within the theater. It sounds perverse, but it was a stroke of genius. Originally staged for the Royal Opera House in London, Şerban ’s Turandot is now very well traveled, with more than 50 productions around the world.
On Saturday night, it opened again, this time at the Kennedy Center Opera House. The Washington National Opera can be clumsy when it comes to complex productions with lots of moving parts. But Şerban came to D.C. to restage his famous work, and despite a few glitches (and backstage noise) it looked tight and coherent and well choreographed (Kate Flatt).
The wisdom of Şerban’s approach, which encloses the action within a reproduction of a tiered wooden theater, with the chorus commenting on the action from the sidelines, was apparent the moment soprano Sabina Cvilak began Liu’s first act aria, “Signore, ascolta.” Liu is usually one of Puccini’s more thankless roles, a dull vision of innocence amidst a grand cavalcade of cruelty, exoticism and sensuality. She is a Chinese Micaela, the Bore of Beijing, a throw-away role for the piccola donna, with two good but not great arias that only hinder the audience’s real pleasure: The relentless forward motion of Puccini’s climaxes.
But Cvilak’s Liu was worth slowing down for. The Slovenian soprano is a fine singer, with a remarkably pure voice, a well-supported pianissimo and surprising strength when she needs it. She sang and acted with clarity and an affecting directness, which is, of course, the only way that poor Liu can be effective on stage.
Cvilak was helped by Şerban’s intimate staging. All too often Liu is lost in the crowd—her music is filled with plaintive cries to be heard (“…ascolta,” “…ascoltami”)—but not this time. And for once, Liu got some respect. Not just from the audience, which rewarded Cvilak with a well-deserved standing ovation, but from Turandot as well. Maria Guleghina’s Ice Princess seemed genuinely affected in the last act by Liu’s demonstration of love and self-sacrifice.
Without this lesson in love, delivered by the hapless little songbird, Turandot’s conversion and return to humanity makes very little sense. Liu was Puccini’s own invention, apparently fused from two minor characters who appear as slaves in Carlo Gozzi’s 1762 theater piece, the distant, original inspiration for the libretto. Puccini began his work with Liu’s Act III scene, perhaps well aware of this important moral fulcrum in an otherwise chilling and bizarre depiction of sexual frigidity married to narcissism.
Most productions of Turandot are doomed before they even begin, as producers and opera companies compete in an impossible arms race of stage spectacle. There’s no hope of winning, of course, especially with productions such as Franco Zeffirelli’s colossus at the Met—the H-bomb of Turandots—already familiar to most operas lovers. The advantage of Şerban’s approach is that it not only lets him achieve intimacy, it scales down the lavishness of the affair to reasonable proportions.
Fortunately, Şerban’s downsizing rarely disappoints, perhaps because the real dimensions of this piece are musical, and the music is heard in all its over sized glory. Which is why you need a soprano such as Maria Guleghina to sing the title role. Guleghina is a very hard worker, and she’s been a busy bee at the Met recently. But you never quite know what you’re going to get. As Abigaille, in Verdi’s Nabucco four years ago, she gave a wild, disjointed and often very shrill performance. Earlier this season, in the title role of Adriana Lecouvreur, she sounded much better, and the natural heft of the voice seemed at home in the later, heavier style of Cilea.
On Saturday, she demonstrated her usual power, and often some very affecting, more modestly scaled singing that had genuine warmth. But she seemed to be working hard to support the voice, even to the point of taking distracting breaths which broke up the line. Her acting is borrowed straight from the good old days of grand divas with crazy energy, laser-like death stares and hauteur to burn. At the end of the evening it’s clear why Guleghina seems to be everywhere today. It may not be pretty, but she gets the job done.
If tenor Darío Volonté, as Calaf, could have scaled Puccini’s music down to fit the scale of Şerban’s production, he would have been a happier singer. Volonté’s voice never cracked or wavered, but it was often lost in the din. His “Nessun dorma,” demonstrated the simplicity and forthrightness of a tenor well versed in Verdi. Volonté lacks the pure vulgar bigness necessary for Calaf, and that may not be a bad thing. As long as he doesn’t sing Calaf.
Conductor Keri-Lynn Wilson might have done a little more to help him, but you can’t rejigger the sonic landscape too much (especially with smaller characters, such as Timur, sung by large-voiced singers, such as Morris Robinson). The orchestra, especially the brass, sounded sumptuous and well rehearsed, but there were problems keeping the chorus and orchestra together in ensemble passage. At least twice it seemed like things were slipping away from Wilson. But she deserves credit for clarifying the orchestral texture and drawing out some of Puccini’s delicate and easily lost refinements.
The production continues through June 4, but the sign of a man at the box office with a paper sign begging to purchase anything available isn’t a good sign for opera lovers who have purchased seats in advance. There is, however, a concert performance of the opera just added to the schedule, to be heard in Baltimore’s Lyric Opera House on June 2. Placido Domingo will conduct. This not only brings succor to a city cruelly deprived of a major opera company (a victim of the recession), it will test the validity of my comments about Şerban, above.
Soprano Sabina Cvilak, photograph by Marjan Laznik
Some people hear music through the strangest of portals. There are opera lovers who love only one voice, and they will love any music that voice sings. And there are orchestra fanatics who can’t abide solo recitals or chamber music or–heaven forbid–an evening at the opera. But the oddest of these single-minded creatures are the music lovers who specialize in one instrument. The flute is the Alpha and Omega. And thus, the Vaughn Williams Tuba concerto is a lovely piece… if played on a flute. And only on a flute.
I wish I could say nicer things about Catrin Finch’s new recording of the Bach Goldberg variations on Deutsche Grammophon. She is certainly a fine musician. And it’s an ambitious recording. Before she could even think of going into the studio, Finch had to transcribe the entire piece. And there’s the problem. Finch is a harpist.
Nothing against the harp, I assure you. The end of “Das Rheingold” (scored for six harps, playing what is, according to harpists, really, really badly written harp music) wouldn’t be the same without it. But the harp isn’t the ideal instrument for the Goldbergs.
The harp, like the harpsichord, is a plucked instrument. Unlike the harpsichord, which can only pluck the string with a single degree of force (thus resulting in a limited dynamic range), the harpist can pluck with varying degrees of force, and introduce nuances of expression into the line. But every string must be damped individually, and there’s a tendency throughout Finch’s Bach to let them ring too long. The result is muddy, a bit like a pianist playing with a sloppy pedal technique.
If you love the harp, Finch has no doubt made a noble effort. If you don’t love the harp—and I mean love the harp—the texture grows monotonous and the constant soupiness of the instrument wearisome. That brings us to an important question: Was there ever a need to transcribe the Goldberg Variations for harp in the first place?
We enter strange territory here. For serious harp lovers, who see the world only through harp-colored glasses, there is an unending need for new harp music. It’s like living in a world in which you can read only Linear B. Until someone translates “War and Peace” into Linear B, you’re S.O.L.
For the rest of us, there is already a delicious abundance of recordings of the Goldberg Variations on instruments much better suited to the music, including the piano and harpsichord. Translating it for the harp is a stunt, but not quite funny enough to rise to the level of party disk (see Florence Foster Jenkins).
Transcription needs to be better theorized. First, let’s divide transcription into those which are essentially variations, such as the great opera fantasies written for the piano (Liszt, Thalberg, and co.) in the 19th century. These are unique and individual compositions, and a very different thing from the second category: Transcriptions that are essentially translations. These emphasize the illusion of a seamless fit, as music is moved from one instrument to another. Clarinet sonatas transcribed for harmonica, etc. These must be criticized on a case by case basis.
Some recent efforts to play French harpsichord music on the piano, for instance, work rather well. Alexandre Tharaud makes harpsichord music by Couperin sound very convincing on the piano, but he’s an intelligent musician who knows how to finesse expressive pianistic analogues for the harpsichord’s more formal language of ornamentation. But I would never recommend these interpretations anyone unfamiliar with the music, because too much is lost. And generally it takes a heroic musician to overcome the general fact that one-for-one transcriptions produce bad music.
Alas, even though they amuse at first, Finch’s transcription don’t offer much new insight on the Goldbergs. The best she can do is make her Bach sound almost as good as it would sound on a harpsichord or piano. It’s an illusionist’s trick to present Bach on the harp, except the illusion fails when you start looking for the contrapuntal clarity. It reminds me of Marion Cotillard lip-synching to Jil Aigrot’s phenomenal imitation of the voice of Edith Piaf in “Ma Vie en Rose.” It’s a remarkable sleight of hand, and you’re impressed by how well it works… up to a point. But if you want to hear Piaf, then put on Piaf. The same thing with the Goldbergs. And if you must listen to the Goldberg Variations transcribed, then try Glenn Gould.