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Opera Today, 13 Nov 2011 |
John Yohalem |
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Ciléa: Adriana Lecouvreur, New York, Carnegie Hall, November 8, 2011 |
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Adriana Lecouvreur, Carnegie Hall
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What could be more appropriate for the Samhain season than a return from
near-death?
The Opera Orchestra of New York seemed to edge the
shadows quite lately, but its return to Carnegie Hall with Cilèa’s fragrant
Adriana Lecouvreur was ardently welcomed by something like a sell-out
crowd—and why not? The cast, headed by Angela Gheorghiu and Jonas Kaufmann,
could hardly have been more up-to-the-moment starry. Adriana is not the
obscure sort of fare for which New York’s opera lovers have long treasured
the company, being an occasional visitor to the Met as well as to OONY in
recent seasons, but no one seemed to mind that. Even better news was the
remodeled and repeopled orchestra itself under its handsome new conductor,
Alberto Veronesi, producing Cilèa’s masterful and dreamy effects all night
up to the ethereal harps that accompany the expiring Adriana to the throne
of Melpomene, Muse of Tragedy, on Mount Parnassus. They made one almost
eager to hear OONY’s next offering, Wagner’s Rienzi, on January 29th. A
maestro of Veronesi’s ability might find elegances in that bombastic work
that have previously escaped our attention.
Adriana has its bombastic
moments too, but it largely sticks to formal “Verist” manners: continuous
song inspired by dialogue and personality; the opera lacks even the audience
sop of an act finale of singers in full concerted blast. Adriana is based—it
is the last successful opera based—on a script by the indefatigable (but, by
1902, long dead) Eugène Scribe, and like all Scribe historical farragoes,
“illustrates” historical problems by placing the feelings of characters,
real or fictitious, in the foreground with a claque of intricate
skullduggery to surround it and elicit our thrills and chills of
sympathy—the technique of “historicality” bequeathed by Scribe to Hollywood.
In Adriana, the great actress, in love with a mere officer, learns that he
is actually Maurice de Saxe, son of the king of Poland, eventually a marshal
of France, and aspirant to the throne of Courland. (Where? Latvia. Same as
Latvia. Roughly. But don’t worry; the whole show takes place in Paris.)
Maurizio (as he is here) has concealed his identity because, for political
reasons (Courland again), he has been courting the passionate wife of the
mighty Prince de Bouillon. The Prince never suspects Maurizio is his wife’s
lover, but he does suspect the gallant officer of seducing his mistress.
That would call for a duel. Add a lot of complications in a darkened room by
two desperate women who must not see each other’s faces, and a
nastily-wielded speech from Racine, and a bunch of poisoned violets. In
life, Maurice and Adrienne had a child, whose great-granddaughter was George
Sand, a pal of Scribe’s. And Maurice never did get Courland. Never mind.
Angela Gheorghiu has a lovely voice but her choice of repertory and the
way she uses the instrument have seldom delighted me. On this occasion,
while her diva mannerisms no doubt recalled the old days to those who missed
them (in either sense), she was for me the least satisfying singer. This may
be a case of being too busy studying the notes to bother with the story.
Adrienne Lecouvreur was the queen of the Comédie Française because she
brought naturalism, or what passed for naturalism in 1730, to a stage frozen
in the affectations of “high art.” This is the message of Adriana’s entrance
aria, “Io son l’umile ancella,” when, in response to her colleagues’
applause, she assures them she merely inhabits the text as it has been
written. Obviously, a great actress does much more than that and a great
singer should present the aria as naturalism on her own particular terms—but
it must be natural on some terms. Gheorghiu can be many things on
stage—pathetic, passionate, sexy, tragic, outraged, outrageous—but she is
never natural. That’s all right as long as you sing “Io son l’umile ancella”
in a natural fashion, its strophes considered, its raptures and confidences
part of a whole (the way Mirella Freni sang it—got that?), but Gheorghiu
isolated the phrases into separate Post-It notes on her performing style,
never joining them into a whole and demolishing Cilèa’s loveliest melody.
Maestro Veronesi followed her devotedly: A star is a star. A friend
suggested that he wasn’t conducting the orchestra at all—Gheorghiu was doing
it herself with all those tossings and flutterings of her elegant gown.
After a costume change in the interval—divas rule!—Gheorghiu seemed more
prepared to sink into the score (which she recently performed in a full
staging at Covent Garden). The spoken tirade from Racine’s Phaedra in Act
III was, to these ears, her finest vocal moment although one might cavil
that it isn’t exactly sung. Her “Poveri fiori,” if once again wayward in
tempo, took us closer to the character than anything else all night.
Jonas Kaufmann is not the ideal Latin tenor lover (one reason his
Alfredo at the Met was predictably disappointing), but he has such
advantages, such a robust, attractive baritonal color to his voice with a
seemingly effortless reach to the top, such musicality, such charisma, such
devotion to creating his part (which meant here that he had to convince two
jealous women of his unflawed fidelity—no trouble for Kaufmann—we all wanted
to believe he was in love with us, and it’s easy to believe what you want to
believe when it’s sung like that), that I was as starry-eyed as the rest of
the house. When I say he lacks “Latinity,” I mean that when he does go for
emotional high points, declaring his love or recounting a bold military
exploit, though the phrases ring, he does not sound ready to die to take
that redoubt, I mean high note. That is the effect of the ideal Verismo
tenor. Kaufmann is German: brainless testosterone is just an act for him.
Anita Rachvelishvili has been singing Carmen to acclaim all over the
world, and she did not seem to have renounced the street Gypsy when singing
the jealous Principessa here. She seems a very young singer, but the
Principessa (unlike so many of her interpreters) is not old; she is a
disappointed young woman trapped in a marriage to a noble roué; Maurizio has
waked a smoldering volcano. Rachvelishvili has a deep, smoky sound with a
vibrato that can be thrillingly suggestive or vaguely spooky and wide of
pitch. Her Principessa was full of sass. I wonder what her Dalila might be
like?
Ambrogio Maestri, resembling a thick-lipped, sentimental
concierge in a romantic farce, brought a far more impressive sound to
Michonnet, Adriana’s hopeful manager, than the lovesick fellow usually gets.
The smaller roles were cast appealingly, especially Nicola Pamio’s mincing
abbé and the four twirling actors who cheer Adriana on her birthday. The
orchestra sounded reborn, revivified, ready for anything. I hope that means
they will take on many scores they have not played for us before—there’s a
lot of terrific bel canto that’s just coming to light. Or if they stick to
encoring previous O.O.N.Y. successes, may one suggest Robert le Diable?
Nerone? Poliuto? Beatrice di Tenda? I missed them last time through, and
they’re certainly worth more than one glance. Or Bizet’s Ivan IV. Or
Mercadante’s Virginia. Or Gomes’ Maria Tudor or Il Guarany. Or….
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