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Financial Times, February 19, 2014 |
By Martin Bernheimer |
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Massenet: Werther, Metropolitan Opera, 18. Februar 2014 |
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Werther, Metropolitan Opera, New York – review
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Richard Eyre’s production of Massenet’s opera favours dramatic bravado over
lyrical grace
Massenet’s Werther represents a precarious fusion of
flashy prose and perfumed poetry. The new production at the Met, which
opened on Tuesday, pays more attention to the former than the latter.
Richard Eyre’s relatively conservative staging and Rob Howell’s
picturesque designs betray some odd choices. The curtain rises, prematurely,
on mime episodes depicting the death and funeral of the heroine’s mother,
neither reflected in the score. The exposition reveals a surreal landscape
adorned with a bridge that goes nowhere. The scene is framed by five false
proscenium arches, perspectives askew. Wendall Harrington’s video
projections decorate the initial narrative, then sadly disappear. The finale
unfolds within a forward-sliding box.
The action, originally set in
the late 18th century, is advanced a hundred years or more – reasons
unclear. The simple Haus-Fräulein Charlotte becomes a sophisticated flirt
who models a chic evening gown. At the end, after the long-suffering
protagonist commits the slowest of suicides, she declares her belated love,
pointing a pistol to her pretty head as the curtain mercifully falls.
Although inauthentic, such innovations would not be terribly disturbing if
the production lent equal stress to the introspective elements in the opera.
Massenet, after all, was unabashedly sentimental. Eyre & Co. seem
embarrassed by any threat of aesthetic nostalgia.
In the pit, Alain
Altinoglu, the gutsy conductor, reinforces similar priorities. Apart from
some star-tenor indulgences, he favours brisk tempos, generous decibels and
rousing climaxes. Forget period sensitivity. Forget elegance.
The
obvious raison d’être for the endeavour was Jonas Kaufmann, who pined nobly
in the title role and rang the rafters neatly and toughly, perhaps more
often than absolutely necessary. He also floated exquisite pianissimos and
breathtaking diminuendos when the spirit moved him. With Elīna Garanča on
maternity leave, Sophie Koch brought aching intensity to the miseries of
Charlotte and sang with arching power, occasional rough edges
notwithstanding. David Bižic nearly turned innocent Albert into a blustery
buffo, but Lisette Oropesa focused giddy sympathy as Sophie, the resident
quasi-soubrette.
In all, this Werther favoured dramatic bravado over
lyrical grace. But only a churl would complain. The first-nighters loved it
clap-happily.
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