On Saturday evening April 22, 2017, San Diego Opera presented Giuseppe Verdi’s La traviata at the Civic Theater. Director Marta Domingo updated the production from the constrictions of the nineteenth century to the freedom of the nineteen twenties. Violetta’s fellow courtesans and their dates wore fascinating outfits and, at one point, danced the Charleston to what looked like a jazz combo playing Verdi’s score.
Thomas Adès’s third opera, The Exterminating Angel, is a dizzying, sometimes frightening, palimpsest of texts (literary and cinematic) and music, in which ceaseless repetitions of the past - inexact, ever varying, but inescapably compulsive - stultify the present and deny progress into the future. Paradoxically, there is endless movement within a constricting stasis. The essential elements collide in a surreal Sartrean dystopia: beasts of the earth (live sheep and a simulacra of a bear) roam, a disembodied hand floats through the air, water spouts from the floor and a burning cello provides the flames upon which to roast the sacrificial lambs. No wonder that when the elderly Doctor tries to restore order through scientific rationalism he is told, “We don't want reason! We want to get out of here!”
Is A Dog’s Heart even an opera? It is sung by opera singers to live
music. Alexander Raskatov’s score, however, is secondary to the incredible
stage visuals. Whatever it is, actor/director Simon McBurney’s first stab at
opera is fantastic theatre. Its revival at Dutch National Opera, where it
premiered in 2010, is hugely welcome.
I kept hearing from knowledgeable opera fanatics that the Israeli Opera (IO) in Tel Aviv was a surprising sure bet. So I made my way to the Homeland to hear how supposedly great the quality of opera was. And man, I was in for treat.
At Phoenix’s Symphony Hall on Friday evening April 7, Arizona Opera offered its final presentation of the 2016-2017 season, Gioachino Rossini’s Cinderella (La Cenerentola). The stars of the show were Daniela Mack as Cinderella, called Angelina in the opera, and Alek Shrader as Don Ramiro. Actually, Mack and Shrader are married couple who met singing these same roles at San Francisco Opera.
On Saturday evening April 1, 2017, Placido Domingo and Los Angeles Opera celebrated their tenth year of training young opera artists in the Domingo-Colburn-Stein Program. From the singing I heard, they definitely have something of which to be proud.
The town’s name itself “Baden-Baden” (named after Count Baden) sounds already enticing. Built against the old railway station, its Festspielhaus programs the biggest stars in opera for Germany’s largest auditorium. A Mecca for music lovers, this festival house doesn’t have its own ensemble, but through its generous sponsoring brings the great productions to the dreamy idylle.
The Festspielhaus in Baden-Baden pretty much programs only big stars. A prime example was the Fall Festival this season. Grigory Sokolov opened with a piano recital, which I did not attend. I came for Cecilia Bartoli in Bellini’s Norma and Christian Gerhaher with Schubert’s Die Winterreise, and Anne-Sophie Mutter breathtakingly delivering Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto together with the London Philharmonic Orchestra. Robin Ticciati, the ballerino conductor, is not my favorite, but together they certainly impressed in Mendelssohn.
Mahler as dramatist! Mahler Symphony no 8 with Vladimir Jurowski and the London Philharmonic Orchestra at the Royal Festival Hall. Now we know why Mahler didn't write opera. His music is inherently theatrical, and his dramas lie not in narrative but in internal metaphysics. The Royal Festival Hall itself played a role, literally, since the singers moved round the performance space, making the music feel particularly fluid and dynamic. This was no ordinary concert.
Imagine a fête galante by Jean-Antoine Watteau brought to life, its colour and movement infusing a bucolic scene with charm and theatricality. Jean-Philippe Rameau’s opéra-ballet Les fêtes d'Hébé, ou Les talens lyriques, is one such amorous pastoral allegory, its three entrées populated by shepherds and sylvans, real characters such as Sapho and mythological gods such as Mercury.
Whatever one’s own religious or spiritual beliefs, Bach’s St Matthew Passion is one of the most, perhaps the most, affecting depictions of the torturous final episodes of Jesus Christ’s mortal life on earth: simultaneously harrowing and beautiful, juxtaposing tender stillness with tragic urgency.
Lindy Hume’s sensational La bohème at the Berliner
Staatsoper brings out the moxie in Puccini. Abdellah Lasri emerged as a
stunning discovery. He floored me with his tenor voice through which he
embodied a perfect Rodolfo.
Listening to Moritz Eggert’s Caliban is the equivalent of
watching a flea-ridden dog chasing its own tail for one-and-half hours. It
scratches, twitches and yelps. Occasionally, it blinks pleadingly, but you
can’t bring yourself to care for such a foolish animal and its
A large audience packed into the Wigmore Hall to hear the two Baroque rarities featured in this melodious performance by Christian Curnyn’s Early Opera Company. One was by the most distinguished ‘home-grown’ eighteenth-century musician, whose music - excepting some of the lively symphonies - remains seldom performed. The other was the work of a Saxon who - despite a few ups and downs in his relationship with the ‘natives’ - made London his home for forty-five years and invented that so English of genres, the dramatic oratorio.
On March 24, 2017, Los Angeles Opera revived its co-production of Jacques Offenbach’s The Tales of Hoffmann which has also been seen at the Mariinsky Opera in Leningrad and the Washington National Opera in the District of Columbia.
Ermonela Jaho is fast becoming a favourite of Covent Garden audiences, following her acclaimed appearances in the House as Mimì, Manon and Suor Angelica, and on the evidence of this terrific performance as Puccini’s Japanese ingénue, Cio-Cio-San, it’s easy to understand why. Taking the title role in the first of two casts for this fifth revival of Moshe Leiser’s and Patrice Caurier’s 2003 production of Madame Butterfly, Jaho was every inch the love-sick 15-year-old: innocent, fresh, vulnerable, her hope unfaltering, her heart unwavering.
To celebrate its 40th anniversary New Sussex Opera has set itself the challenge of bringing together the six scenes - sometimes described as six discrete ‘tone poems’ - which form Delius’s A Village Romeo and Juliet into a coherent musico-dramatic narrative.
Reflections on former visits to Opera Holland Park usually bring to mind late evening sunshine, peacocks, Japanese gardens, the occasional chilly gust in the pavilion and an overriding summer optimism, not to mention committed performances and strong musical and dramatic values.
In their magnificent Glyndebourne production of Billy Budd, first seen in 2010 and revived here to mark Britten’s centenary anniversary, director Michael Grandage (revival director, Ian Rutherford) and designer Christopher Oram immerse us, quite literally, in the harsh realities of life aboard a late-eighteen-century man-’o-war: the uncompromisingly, and perhaps optimistically, named Indomitable.
Billy Budd at Glyndebourne
A review by Claire Seymour
Above: A scene from Billy Budd [ Photo Richard Hubert Smith]
We are dragged down into the deep, dark, timbered underbelly of the vessel
— an airless, light-deprived pit, where human emotions are, ironically,
simultaneously repressed and magnified. The stratified hierarchies of the
ship’s upper decks which loom above this suffocating netherworld oddly invert
the more tranquil orders of the theatre’s own wooden interior, the blanched
hues and cruel undercurrents of this submerged, Hadean abyss an unsettling
counterpoint to our own comforts and civilities.
It is a world of callous, merciless severity, but one alleviated by communal
understanding, simple shared pleasures, and surprising acts of kindness amid
the rough company. Billy’s selfless sharing of his ‘baccy’ to ease old
Dansker’s despondent stoicism is later matched by the old sea-dog’s gentle
ministrations to the imprisoned and condemned ‘Baby’. Similarly, as
Billy’s friends skilfully tie the knots that will imminently break his neck,
the painful tenderness of their actions contrasts heartbreakingly with the
wretched ruthlessness of their superior officers.
Mark Padmore — View from the Bridge on Vimeo.
Grandage and Oram recreate wartime naval life — its routines, deprivations
and brutalities — with detailed exactitude and veracity: ropes are bundled
and pitched; riggings are pulled and tugged; seamen heave and haul, then seek
meagre rest from their troubles and toils in paltry swinging hammocks. Movement
director Tom Roden deserves much praise for the polished choreography: the
swarming sailors go about their humdrum exertions with grace, spryly eluding
the biting flick of a whip, the threatening thud of a baton; Billy Budd nimbly
flings himself from balcony to deck, dangling from guard-rail and banister with
gymnastic litheness; and the choral set-pieces are masterpieces of physical
narrative. The crew assuage the gloom with a sprightly sea shanty which is
toe-tappingly infectious in its expression of life’s humble joys. At the
start of Act 2, the men’s excitement during the pursuit of the French ship is
wonderfully complemented by the ceremonial scarlet of the musketeers and
drummers (costume supervisor, Sarah Middleton; wig supervisor, Sheila
Slaymaker) and the animation of the ship’s proud red flag in the blustering
breeze, and the extinction of this flash of colour and hope by the returning
hoary mist emphasises the mood of bitter disappointment and futility.
The large cast are uniformly excellent, individually defining their roles,
collectively bonding in adversity. The ship’s captain, Edward Fairfax Vere,
is supported by a highly competent and professional naval team: the crisp
bellows of Darren Jeffery’s Lieutenant Ratcliffe are a clarion call to order
and discipline, while Mr Flint (David Soar) and Mr Redburn (Stephen Gadd) prowl
menacingly among the men, their commands glowing with potent intimidation.
There are many welcome role reprisals from 2010, including Colin Judson’s
squirming Squeak, Alasdair Elliott’s exuberant Red Whiskers and Richard
Mosely-Evans’ Bosun. Jeremy White is once again a powerfully dignified
Dansker, his voice full of wisdom, quiet honour and weary resignation. Peter
Gjsbertsen, who sang Maintop in 2010, is here a movingly pathetic Novice,
driven by a desperate fear to betray Billy, against instinct and love. Duncan
Rock, another returnee from three years ago, is particularly note-worthy as the
Novice’s Friend, singing with heartfelt warmth tinged with a levelling
pragmatism. The several soloists from the Glyndebourne Chorus — Benjamin Cahn
(Second Mate), Brendan Collins (Arthur Jones) and Michael Wallace (First Mate)
— all acquit themselves very well.
Which brings us to the three central characters — two of whom are singing
their roles for the first time — whose tortured triangle of emotional
entanglements brings about such wasteful death and tragedy.
Brindley Sherratt is a disturbing John Claggart, his dark bass paradoxically
beautiful, its lustrous sheen painfully at odds with the sentiments of his
malicious utterances. This Master-at-Arms lurks and skulks among his
underlings, tense and discreet, a ticking time-bomb unleashing flashes of
malevolence which reveal the monstrous depths of his loathing for those whose
fates he rules — a revulsion which, in his ‘Credo’, is turned upon his
own degenerate soul. Sherratt’s bristling self-containment is eerily
disconcerting: he presents his mendacious denouncement of Billy to his scornful
Captain with an unsettling blend of subservience, humility and contempt.
Vere himself remains an elusive figure — withdrawn, reticent, absorbed by
his erudite library but distanced from the men whose lives depend upon him.
Indeed, in Mark Padmore’s highly original interpretation, Captain Vere is
less a ‘Starry’ leader, a man of action inspiring loyal devotion from his
seamen, than a philosophising recluse, introverted and evasive, angered by the
unavoidable circumstances of war, and by his own reflections and motivations.
Padmore is characteristically thoughtful and dramatic in his delivery of the
text, dispensing with surtitles in the self-scrutinising prologue and epilogue
which frame the action aboard ship. When alone, Vere’s furious
self-reproaches are astonishing vehement, his outburst during the Epilogue,
‘What have I done?’, a ferocious vocal punch. And while at the top
Padmore’s tone is sometimes strained, the characterisation never wavers. The
reserved self-possession which Vere displays when presenting his account to the
drumhead court is shockingly cold; but such restraint does present some
problems in terms of the coherence of the narrative. For, it is not clear why a
man of such apparent moderation and self-control, educated and articulate,
would stay silent, denying his ineloquent devotee a fair and balanced hearing.
Why does this Vere arouse such affection among his men, and particularly from
Billy? What is the nature of his feelings for the boy he calls ‘an angel’
— fatherly fondness, or something more? When his officers plead for his
guidance, knowledge and wisdom, ‘Sir, we need you as always’, why does he
refuse to save his protégée?
Grandage and Oram neglect not a detail of the practicalities of naval life,
but do not venture far into the psychological complexities of Melville’s
narrative, and the homosexual tensions of both the novella and Forster’s
libretto are somewhat disregarded. Similarly, Paule Constable’s lighting is
typically sensitive and atmospheric but essentially a visual complement, rather
than an active element in the drama.
Melville’s ironic insinuations, Forster’s symbols and suggestions, and
the musical inferences of the score are not really explored. Thus, Claggart’s
‘sickness’ — what Melville elusively termed ‘natural depravity’ —
seems merely an inhuman ‘evil’; like Iago he is driven not by covetousness
or passion, but because he perceives in another a ‘goodness’, one that he
does not wish to possess (in either sense of the word) but which he must
destroy because he recognises that ‘He hath a daily beauty in his life/ That
makes me ugly’. Padmore’s inscrutable Vere similarly offers few hints of
any erotic undercurrents between the three men; the ‘foul word’ that the
officers ‘scarcely dare speak’, is simply ‘mutiny’, the threat not
within, insidious and ineradicable, but straightforward and easily oppressed by
Reprising his 2010 Billy Budd, Jacques Imbrailo is absolutely splendid, his
mature, strong voice complementing an honest openness and youthful physical
charm. Billy’s cheerful blue shirt and fancy red neckerchief bring a splash
of colour into the sailor’s grey lives, just as his breezy good humour and
bright optimism alleviate the dour, dull days with sunny hope. Imbrailo’s
phrasing is full of buoyancy and vigour, his tone pleasing and fresh, but not
without the occasion touch of realistic roughness to bring credibility to the
portrayal of innocence. It is immediately obvious why his fellow seamen hold
him in such warm affection, and also why he so easily falls prey to
Claggart’s Machiavellian deceptions. Awoken by the Novice, whose gleaming
guineas are designed to tempt him to rebel, Billy’s faraway, fragmented
remembrances of the deep fathoms into which his dream had lulled him are
achingly prophetic. And, condemned to die, enchained in the darbies, his tender
strains as the rays of moonlight stray through the porthole are touchingly
pure, full of sweet sorrow.
Conducting the London Philharmonic Orchestra, Andrew Davis has a good grasp
of the narrative thrust of the score and makes much of its cinematic
scene-painting: the shriek of wind and whistle, the thump of surging wave and
rolling drum, the cries of suffering and of battle. If he never quite winds
things up to a fever pitch of intensity, anguish and paranoia, this is an
unfailingly controlled and clear reading. The saxophone’s roving dirge during
the flogging of the Novice has a paradoxical and painful mellifluousness; and
the recollection of the ‘interview chords’ as Billy accepts his fate
—‘I’m contented’, ‘I’m strong, and I know it and I’ll stay
strong’ — powerfully underline the Amen of forgiveness evoked by the
original plagal sequence.
The even rocking of the string lines which open the Prologue effectively
conveys both the inexorable lapping of the ocean and the insistent urgings of
Vere’s memory. In this regard, the masterstroke of the production comes in
the final scene when Vere oversees Billy’s execution, not from a platform
aloft but from amid his men, dressed as an old man: it is clear that what we
have seen is a re-enactment of the past as experienced by a man who is plagued
by regret, guilt and futile contrition.
This is a consummate production, exemplary in terms of its dramatic and
musical consistency. There are still a few tickets available for performances
on 15, 17 and 22 August. Don’t miss out.
Listen to Billy Budd podcast:
Cast and production information:
Captain Vere, Mark Padmore; Billy Budd, Jacques Imbrailo; Claggart,
Brindley Sherratt; Lieutenant Ratcliffe, Darren Jeffery; Mr Flint, David Soar;
Mr Redburn, Stephen Gadd; Red Whiskers, Alasdair Elliott; Dansker, Jeremy
White; Squeak, Colin Judson; Novice, Peter Gijsbertsen; Novice’s Friend,
Duncan Rock; Bosun, Richard Mosley-Evans; Donald, John Moore; First Mate,
Michael Wallace; Second Mate, Benjamin Cahn; Maintop, Dean Power; Arthur Jones,
Brendan Collins; Cabin Boy, Charlie Gill; Midshipmen, Sebastian Davies/ Tom
Foreman/ William Gardner/ Quentin-Zach Martins/Will Roberts; Conductor, Andrew
Davis; Director, Michael Grandage; Revival Director, Ian Rutherford; Designer,
Christopher Oram; Lighting Designer, Paule Constable; Movement Director, Tom
Roden; London Philharmonic Orchestra; The Glyndebourne
Chorus. Glyndebourne Festival Opera, Saturday 10 August, 2013.