Whenever I’m not listening to this opera, which is most of the
time, I despise it. The plot’s intrigues are unclear, there are
long moments of backstage fol-di-rol that are even worse than
the outside-the-inn stuff in Manon, and Cilea has no compunction
about using a good tune over and over again rather than doing
something thoughtful or harmonically interesting—and has the
nerve to use the big “Poveri fiori” melody as a prelude to the
last act, in which the aria shows up 15 minutes later—in order
to make the listener feel smart. And a 15-minute death scene?
Caused by poisoned violets? Puhleeze!
But then I hear
those melodies—more beautiful, perhaps than any composer’s since
Bellini—and fall for the sheer Romanticism and gimmickry all
over again, and sit and hope that soprano, tenor, and mezzo will
convince me that I’m not tossing a perfectly good
two-and-a-half-hour period into the garbage. In other words,
this opera had better be sung magnificently and, if seen, be
acted half to death. And the Adriana had better chew scenery—no
notes held too long, no glance lacking meaning, no gesture too
broad. Magda Olivero, Montserrat Caballé, and Renata Scotto are
three of the “recent” proponents of the title role; none has
ever been accused of understatement. This performance almost
makes it.
The world of this opera is the theater: We are
watching an opera singer sing the role of a great actress while
the other singers (in the first act) are watching a great
actress act from backstage; in the third, she delivers a
dramatic monologue from Phaedra, in speech, to humiliate her
rival. If our soprano overacts, is it because the character is
overacting? One thing is certain: nothing in this opera can be
underplayed. David McVicar directs on good-looking sets by
Charles Edwards (with sumptuous 18th-century French-like
costumes by Brigitte Reiffenstuel). They present an ideal
artificiality: the proscenium is always somewhere in view—the
stage-within-a-stage appears at different angles in different
acts—stage hands are in full view; etc. McVicar looks for no
subtexts; he presents these double-dealing, love-too-much,
melodramatic characters without a gimmick, and with the world of
the theater always central. He asks his two leads to embrace and
kiss often; each is too vain to actually look as if in love with
the other, but that’s a whole other issue.
The opera is
known as a vehicle for sopranos. In fact, it is known as a
vehicle for divas near the end of their careers: there are very
few exposed high notes (and only one B-flat in the whole opera),
and to be effective, sopranos must be willing to risk a certain
amount of very chesty, aggressive singing. Angela Gheorghiu, an
absolute legend in her own mind from the moment of her debut,
takes the title role very seriously, and she is nowhere near the
end of her career. Her voice remains gorgeous, her demeanor that
of a great star, and her singing is beautiful throughout. But
the voice is essentially a size too small and she will not push
her voice (as did Scotto), particularly at the bottom of the
range; Gheorghiu is a very cautious singer. And so some of the
melodrama isn’t quite melodramatic enough. But her last act,
hand-to-forehead and all, is ravishing. As always, you see the
opera singer working the character, unlike the greats, who
inhabit their roles; Gheorghiu has the spontaneity of a
State-of-the-Union message. But in fact, there’s precious little
to complain about.
And there’s (almost)
absolutely nothing to complain about with Jonas Kaufmann’s
Maurizio. This character—a sort-of cad who loves Adriana and
pretends to love the Princess to further his political
ambitions—has as much, if not more, beautiful music to sing than
Adriana, and there’s really nothing Kaufmann’s voice can’t do.
It’s a German/Italian hybrid sound: heavy-ish and baritonal but
with gleaming high notes and the most staggering control over
dynamics. He can bang out a high B-flat and diminish it to a
whisper; he can sing at mezza-voce for long, long phrases; his
fortes are almost Corelli-like in their intensity. He acts well
and is devilishly handsome. What’s the complaint? Well,
again—his vocal effects, though stunning, are calculated, and we
can see the stitching. But he’s great nonetheless.
Olga Borodina radiates arrogance when she’s starring in
comic roles, so you can imagine what she’s like as a Princess:
perfect. Haughty, privileged, jealous, and angry—she’s got it
all in attitude and spectacular vocal color, and the voice is in
great shape. Alessandro Corbelli is a sweet and loving
Michonnet, the stage manager who loves Adriana secretly, and he
wins our sympathy and warmth. The rest of the cast, most of
whose vocal lines are frivolous, is very good.
Keeping it
all together is Mark Elder, who treats the work with respect—but
thankfully, not awe: he gives it plenty of room to spin its
pretty-but-stupid web, pretending the plot holes are not there.
He knows the fragrances but won’t overuse them; the strings,
which could really turn sappy if they wanted to, are kept from
weeping. Perhaps because this opera practically requires a bit
more vulgarity and “verismo” oomph, I wish the soprano and tenor
were more reckless; but they’re not, and so this will do just
fine. If this is your first contact with this work, it’s a
superb introduction. Sit back and be vaguely embarrassed by it
all.
Both picture and sound are superb, and TV director
Francois Roussillon does a fine job. Subtitles are in English,
French, German, and Spanish. A bonus features interviews with
McVicar, et al—very natural and nice, except of course for
Gheorghiu, who looks like the world’s youngest dowager empress
of a poor country and is wearing a hat that should have its own
zip code.
A video of this opera from 1976 starring
Montserrat Caballé, Fiorenza Cossotto, and José Carreras at
their vocal and dramatic best is available from VAI; picture
quality is mediocre and the Japanese subtitles cannot be avoided
(English can be placed on top of them), but it is a brilliant
performance. Another, with Joan Sutherland, is an example of
miscasting in the highest degree. A third, starring Mirella
Freni and Peter Dvorsky, doesn’t make it.
