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Wall Street Journal, February
21, 2007 |
By MATTHEW GUREWITSCH |
Opera Critics Sing Jonas Kaufmann's Praises
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The
London music critics are seldom unanimous: They are just too many for that.
Their reports on a new "Carmen" at the Royal Opera House in December, the
first there since 1991, ran the gamut. The director Francesca Zambello, the
conductor Antonio Pappano, the soprano Anna Caterina Antonacci as Bizet's
gypsy siren -- all took some heavy brickbats to balance their bravos. Not,
however, the German tenor Jonas Kaufmann (YO-nahss KOWF-mahn), 37, in his
role debut as Don José, the homicidally jealous dragoon. For him it was
hearts and flowers all the way.
Some of the reviews were content simply to extol, describing Mr. Kaufmann as
"great" or "superb." Others ranked him with such legendary predecessors as
Jon Vickers and José Carreras. The Financial Times asked: "Could he be
Domingo's heir?" (And to think that Don José had previously been entrusted
to Roberto Alagna, who canceled for the sake of the ill-fated "Aida" at La
Scala, where boos for his opening aria struck him, he later told the press,
"like a death blow." As widely reported, Mr. Alagna fled the stage in
midscene, was barred from later performances, and is now threatening legal
action.)
Don José is a tormented fellow with eloquent music to sing, in moods that
range from nostalgia to desperation, from shame and self-pity to blind rage.
Not only did Mr. Kaufmann strike all these chords, he also found ways to
blend them. A high point, as one hopes against hope that it will be, was the
Flower Song, Don José's abashed declaration of a humiliating love, sung in
tones of unconditional emotional surrender. As an actor, Mr. Kaufmann used
his lanky physique and fallen-angel countenance (framed by curls that tumble
to his shoulders) as expressively as his voice.
And when Ms. Zambello asked him to enter a scene rappelling down the side of
a cliff, he could do that, too, with a panther's stealthy grace.
Mr. Kaufmann saw his first opera at the age of 5. "It was 'Madama Butterfly'
at the Bavarian State Opera in Munich," he recalled over a late dinner after
his penultimate Don José. "We were sitting in the first row, right by the
conductor," he recalled. "The one thing that disappointed me was
Cio-Cio-San's curtain call. I'd just seen her kill herself with my own eyes!
How could she come out for a bow after that?" Pro that he is, he has learned
to live with that little paradox without losing his belief in the
truthfulness of the stage.
The way other boys decide to be pilots or firemen, little Jonas knew right
away that he wanted to be an opera singer -- not that he was in any hurry.
Talent scouts from the Regensburger Domspatzen -- the "sparrows of
Regensburg Cathedral," rivals of the Vienna Choir Boys -- heard him in a
children's chorus and invited him to join, but he kept the news to himself
until years later. "I was happy at home," Mr. Kaufmann says. "I liked being
with my family. I didn't want to go to boarding school." His formal study of
voice began when he was in his mid-teens and ended when he completed his
training at the Hochschule für Musik, in Munich.
Just as Mr. Kaufmann -- all of 27 -- was finding his way into work with
regional German opera companies, the Italian master director Giorgio
Strehler put out a casting call for "Così Fan Tutte." The production of
Mozart's dark comedy of romantic disillusionment was to be Strehler's last.
Some 500 hopeful tenors sent in videos for his personal review. At a live
audition in Milan, Strehler told Mr. Kaufmann to his face that he was too
old. Yet in the end, a panicky last-minute offer came through, and Mr.
Kaufmann was on his way to an international career.
In the intervening decade, Mr. Kaufmann has proved hard to classify. He has
sung Nero, the depraved Roman emperor of Monteverdi's scintillating
"Incoronazione di Poppea"; Titus, the preternaturally forgiving Roman
emperor, in Mozart's "Clemenza di Tito"; Beethoven's freedom fighter
Florestan, in "Fidelio," hallucinating in his dungeon; as well as such title
roles as Verdi's Don Carlos, doomed Infante of Spain, and Wagner's holy fool
Parsifal.
"I don't think of myself as a German tenor or an Italian tenor or a French
tenor," Mr. Kaufmann says. "I try to do it all. I think I'm able to, and I
think it's healthy for me. Working in different styles, you learn things
that you can take to other repertoire. The last thing I'd want right now
would be to make a CD called 'Jonas Kaufmann, Italian Tenor.' I'd rather
present a program that includes a little of everything -- which used to be a
perfectly ordinary thing to do."
In fact, his discography to date has been somewhat catch-as-catch-can. The
CDs to look for are Weber's "Oberon," sung in English and conducted by John
Eliot Gardiner, which Mr. Kaufmann's youthful ardor sets ablaze (Philips),
and a revelatory recital of lieder by Richard Strauss, normally the province
of seraphic sopranos (Harmonia Mundi). In addition, Mr. Kaufmann may be seen
in full theatrical cry on DVDs from the Zurich Opera House. Naxos
distributes Paisiello's 18th-century hit "Nina," in which Mr. Kaufmann
partners Cecilia Bartoli's lovelorn heroine (on the Arthaus Musik label),
and "Fidelio," documenting his visionary, heart-rending Florestan (on TDK).
Next month, EMI adds "La Clemenza di Tito" to the list, showcasing Mr.
Kaufmann not only as a Mozartean of distinction but also as opera's answer
to Jude Law.
It's an impressive body of work, but under an exclusive contract with Decca,
to be announced next week, Mr. Kaufmann hopes to develop a steadier stream
of recording projects. First up is Schubert's song cycle "Die Schöne
Müllerin" (The Fair Maid of the Mill), ideally suited to his vibrant
lyricism. The song repertoire is a special interest of Mr. Kaufmann's, and
in future CDs he means to explore it further.
But with rare exceptions, a classical singer's reputation is made on the
opera stage. Somewhat to some colleagues' surprise, Mr. Kaufmann continues
to make his home base at the Zurich Opera House. The company suits him on
many counts: its uncompromising artistic standards, knowledgeable audiences,
generous fees, proximity to his home, wife and three children -- and its
modest scale (1,165 seats).
"There are things I can sing in Zurich that I can't yet sing in bigger
houses," Mr. Kaufmann said. "You can make a lot of music with a little
voice." A little voice? For now, the instrument sounds intrinsically lyric
rather than heroic, true. But it projects with ease; there's an edge of
metal there. The timbre is noble. And if it boasts no single color of a
splendor that simply takes the breath away (as Pavarotti's golden tone could
do), Mr. Kaufmann's imaginative shadings give him a palette of seductive
variety and nuance.
His sterling talents are not lost in the vastness of the Metropolitan Opera,
where he made his debut last year opposite the glamorous Angela Gheorghiu in
Verdi's "La Traviata." In March, he returns to the Met for further
performances of that opera. In the fall, he also parachuted in for three
outings as Mozart's Prince Tamino in the Julie Taymor production of "The
Magic Flute." Rather than the conventional, stiff paragon of virtue, Mr.
Kaufmann played a well-born dimwit more than a little out of his depth in
the cosmic power struggle between the tempestuous Queen of the Night and
Sarastro, high priest of the Enlightenment doctrine that Father Knows Best.
The result was graceful, droll and subtly touching.
"A purely heroic Tamino doesn't work," Mr. Kaufmann remarks. "And honestly,
how bright can he be?" Fairy tale or tragedy -- for him, it's real. |
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