Prima la musica, poi le parole

Various

• Despite appearances, my experience of the La Scala Series La traviata was not All About Angela. There were other things. I liked Ramon Vargas and his voice a lot more in Alfredo than in Rodolfo. (And I liked him well enough there, but his Alfredo was just a bit more mellifluous and a bit more charming and, well, a bit more not La bohème.) Roberto Frontali's Germont père had the easiest flowing sound of the principal trio. The production is super traditional and kind of gorgeous; I liked it — Violetta gets fantastic frocks and I want to live in their country house. The La Scala Series experience is not as glossy or as full of features as the Met in HD moviecasts — sound and picture are both a bit scratchier, there's less sense of the audience, and there are no backstage shots and Conversations With Renée (or equivalent) — but still highly satisfying and, in its no frills way, sometimes a bit more immediate and exciting than the Met series. My hat is off to Greater Union Bondi Junction — screenings are in a smallish theatre, exactly the right size for the audience and for this kind of show. I didn't think any movie theatres still did reserved seating, but they do; seats are more steeply raked and further back from the screen than at the Chauvel, which, coupled with the small size of the theatre, means there are really No Bad Seats. The popcorn is brilliant, none of this upmarket (and admittedly tasty) "popped in olive oil" business like in Paddington; here it's your trademark fake butter flavour and a world of salt. Bought from a gargantuan snack bar.
  
• I don't suppose anybody out there has any idea who's singing Rodolfo for OA when La bohème returns in October? The website is still listing him as TBA. Otherwise it's basically a dream cast — the best people from the two casts we had earlier in the year. Amelia Farrugia as Musetta, José Carbo as Marcello and the scintillating Antoinette Halloran as Mimi. That's probably enough to make me see it again (yes, even though it's Bohème — I'm taking my Antoinette opportunities wherever I get them) but I'd like to know if they'll have a Rodolfo to match. Any clues welcome. Offer them anonymously if you like.
  
• Speaking of the scintillating Antoinette Halloran — any Wellington readers manage to attend her recital in the wonderfully named Sings Wellington series? Gorgeous Lieder in the first half and Poulenc's La voix humaine in the second. If you did — I am jealous. And a little in awe. I think anyone just performing the Poulenc is a bit special, but to do it with piano only and after already having sung the first half of a recital? Wow.
  
• Everything is booked and (touch wood) unjinxable now. So, my official schedule for San Francisco, in case anybody will be there and would like to say hello/stalk me (not so much the latter) is as follows:
  20th June — Lucia di Lammermoor
  21st June — Ariodante
  22nd June — Das Rheingold (matinée)
  23rd June — Lucia (again)
  24th June — death by exhaustion (presumably)

Spider and fly

So apparently this what I do on weekends. I go to the Eastern Suburbs to watch Ramon Vargas watch Angela Gheorghiu die.

With the headband and her hair out in Act Two, she even looks like Veronica Lodge. If she's Veronica then maybe that makes me a weird amalgam of Betty and Archie. As aware of her dangers as the former, as blissfully able to ignore them as the latter. No, that's going an inch or two too far. Angela hasn't completely consumed me and I don't believe she ever will. Nevertheless, she has bewitched, bothered and bewildered me more thoroughly than I thought likely — actually, before last weekend's Bohème, I didn't think she could do those things to me at all. That, to my surprise, has flown out the window and now her Violetta has stopped it, for the moment, from climbing back in.

There is so much baggage and back story with Angela. It is impossible to approach her with total innocence. I've spent years forming opinions of her that are only half related to her musical significance. And I'm not about to apologise for that, or try and back track. Very little that I have seen, heard or read of Offstage Angela has caused me to like her. Even during the Met Bohème moviecast, when I was enchanted by Onstage Angela, her non singing persona did not attract me. But rumour breeds rumour, misperception breeds misperception; we have to assume that some of the negativity is baseless. At the same time, I think it's clear that some, at least, is not. She hasn't the ebullient sweetness of Renée or the generous, immediate likeability of Glorious Joyce. Neither, I imagine, is she completely blackhearted. Is she likeable at all, though? I don't know. Do I like her? I don't know, and it depends what you mean. Incorporating all that baggage and back story, adding my own observations of her backstage antics during that Bohème broadcast and the hard-to-articulate impressions of her during this afternoon's La traviata — I don't think so.

But what if everything extra were cleared away? If I had never heard even the briefest mention of this Angela Gheorghiu until the opening credits today, had never seen her or heard her sing until her "Flora, amici", then maybe I'd write something like:

I've just seen this soprano sing Violetta at La Scala and she was captivating. Not perhaps the most aurally luscious Violetta of my life, better suited to the long lines of Act Three than the froth and coloratura of Act One but that's alright. And I'm nitpicking because her singing, whatever else it was, was always interesting. Her acting varied between devastatingly detailed and offputtingly melodramatic but there was a certain something in her stage presence which encompassed both these extremes, allowed her to flow from one to another without losing her magnetism. Occasionally she was completely over the top — has anyone ever made the "aaar" in "E tardi" so very very very long? But then in other moments — Dio mio, she was exquisite. Had I been in a different mood, had I had reason not to like her, I suspect finding fault would be easy. But I was in the mood I was, and I was happy to enjoy whatever kind of Violetta — and whatever kind of Verdi — she felt inclined to throw my way.

Well what do you know, I've gone and written it anyway. She divides me in two. Good twin, bad twin; rational awareness, irrational besottedness. One the one hand — you can practically see her drawing lifeforce from applause, which is a little disturbing. "Sempre libera" really did seem to tax her and I had the impression she was pushing and pulling tempi all over the place. Violetta's illusory "rebirth" just before she died was appallingly overacted. And on the other — I don't care, I don't care, I don't care.

This was what it was. Angela is what she is, like her or hate her, pursue her or run a mile. And I? I fall into both categories simultaneously, or else I'm somewhere in the middle, toss'd like a ship in a Vivaldi aria. About the rest of world and time, I've no idea and I'm not about to go making rash declarations of anything. All I can tell you is that for the duration of this Traviata, Angela entrapped me. And I knew it, and I loved it.

More movies

Have I been living in a cave? I didn't think so, but I'm more than a little surprised I hadn't already heard about this. The "La Scala Series" — cinema presentations of recent productions from La Scala (and a couple from Venice and Florence) — is being screened in a selection of Greater Union cinemas, including one near (well, near enough) me. Why hasn't this been bigger news? Or is it just me? I found out because I've ended up on the mailing list for Opera Queensland and happened to notice an ad for screenings in that state. I followed the link and discovered they're happening in Bondi too.

And they look pretty fantastic. The program detail links on the Greater Union site don't seem to work, but there's more information here, courtesy of the distributor, Arts Alliance Media. My timing is perfect, thank god — I'm just in time for a La traviata this weekend starring none other than the bewildering star of my last post, Angela Gheorghiu. A week ago I might have wished for somebody else but for now her ambiguous fascination holds and I'm curious to see her Violetta. I've seen her famous Covent Garden performance on DVD, but that was years ago, and if I'm completely honest, while I enjoyed it, I wasn't overwhelmed by it the way the rest of the world seems to have been. But now the prospect of Angela is semi-alluring and I suspect that (even if against my will) I might get a bit more of a thrill this time around. Or not, but we'll see.

Also, Maria Stuarda! Which makes me happy in itself but comes with a dynamic duo as a bonus — Mariella Devia as Maria and Anna Caterina Antonacci as Elisabetta. Yes please! Mariella is somebody I forever reading about but haven't yet had an opportunity to enjoy. The darkly fascinating Anna Caterina, meanwhile, is somebody I already know and adore.

There appears to be an Aida featuring Roberto Alagna, which is intriguing. Pre walk-out, presumably. The chance to hear the rest of La rondine appeals; the name Fiorenza Cedolins rings bells, though I'm not sure if they're good bells or bad bells. What else? A Forza conducted by Zubin Mehta, with Violeta Urmana and Marcello Giordano — not bad. Il Trittico, which as far as I can tell may or may not include lovely Barbara Frittoli as Angelica. Paoletta Marrocu, who I remember as a strange and terrifying Lady Macbeth to Thomas Hampson's funny looking (sorry — he did sound wonderful) Macbeth, is Giorgetta in Il tabarro. Those are pretty much the only names I recognise but that's no indicator of anything; in fact much of the appeal here is the chance to hear singers I don't know — one of the disadvantages of living in this half of the planet is that, without travelling, it's hard to know much about anyone without a recording contract. The final production in the series is, lo and behold, a Tristan und Isolde! So unless I finally go and buy myself a recording in between, both my first and my second Tristan will be enhanced by popcorn. Did I mention this one has Waltraud Meier? It does. I like her a lot, based on nothing more substantial than her appearance in James Levine's Anniversary Gala. Michelle DeYoung reappears as Brangäne. Ian Storey is Tristan and I can't shake the feeling that his name should mean something more to me than it does.

Of course, all this does mean that I have to start going to Bondi in my weekends, which doesn't have me wild with joy. But suffering for art is part of the deal.

La bohème, or, The Strange Fascination of Angela Gheorghiu

For whatever reason, La bohème and I have just never got on. I know the rest of the world loves it madly, and believe me, I have tried but it is no use. From "Sono andati" to the end is fantastic, the rest leaves me cold or at best lukewarm. Go ahead and judge me, but I can't do anything about it. It does become a bit more tempting with one of my special favourites singing in it, I admit. Aldo di Toro as Rodolfo, Mirella Freni, Cheryl Barker or Antoinette Halloran as Mimi — I can't deny these are attractive prospects, but even they can't make me adore the opera as a whole. I'm sorry.

And this weekend's HD broadcast didn't even offer such a lure. My relationship with Angela Gheorghiu has never been a very happy one. Her singing has never moved or amazed me, and her antics and interviews don't exactly cast her in a very appealing light. Just as with La bohème itself, thousands adore her and for me it just isn't a happening thing.

Until today. Sort of. There was something strangely compelling and attractive about her Mimi. Strangely is the operative word. Hers was an unusual Mimi; maybe not a Mimi at all. She made vague mention of Murget during her intermission interview as her precedent for a less than pure and innocent portrayal of Mimi — that's as may be, but I suspect her characterisation was less about fidelity to the source and more about Angela doing what she was in the mood for. And yet, this is all a bit beside the point. I found her fascinating and really quite lovely. I felt myself falling under her spell, in fact.

But I also felt that I could see her casting that spell. She's a good actress but there's no way she's going to get lost in a character — Angela is first and foremost Angela, and that means a diva in the old fashioned and grandest sense. I think she knows exactly what she's doing — every turn of phrase, every vocal climax, every delicate, pathos filled gesture and adorable smile, it's all of it calculated to make her audience adore her. Somehow, though, seeing all this happen doesn't do much to lessen its effect. I knew I was being manipulated, but it still worked — in an odd way, seeing the mechanism of diva at work just added to its potency.

So the upshot of all this contradiction is that almost despite myself, I loved every minute of Angela's Mimi. She was downright strange, but mesmerising, and her voice, which has never moved me before, suddenly seemed the most gorgeous, fascinating sound this performance had to offer. But it was her performance I loved. The rest was harder to be bewitched by. Her interview with Renée Fleming was bizarre — like watching Betty interview Veronica. She seemed determined to show how much she adored Renée and to be as flamboyant and quirky as possible but it was all a bit undignified and insincere. She returned from her between-act curtain calls and every time played up for the camera, but it seemed a studied attempt to be adorable, a conscious imitation of the faces Anna Netrebko made for the camera, perhaps.  The most telling moment came as the cast prepared for their final curtain call. Ainhoa Arteta stood there actually crying, wiping away tears and obviously trying to gather herself together. Angela breezed past, humming merrily to herself. Ainhoa was emerging from real, sincere immersion in the emotion of the piece; Angela was emerging from a gala night of Being Angela.

The intangible magnetism she possesses does at times overshadow the rest of the cast. I felt this especially in Ainhoa Arteta's "Quando m'en vo" — as vivid as she was, somehow when Mimi joined in at the end, she took over. It almost seemed as if Puccini had written it that way simply because Angela had sent him a message from the future asking him not to let her thunder be stolen outright by such a showy aria. Ramon Vargas seems like a sweetheart and made quite an attractive Rodolfo but was not overwhelming. Ainhoa Arteta made a singularly unlikeable Act Two Musetta but was completely endearing in Act Four, and her vibrant and shiny voice is certainly the kind of voice I like. The rest of Rodolfo's bohemian circle were all very good and plenty of fun, though I couldn't ever shake the impression of a bunch of healthy, well-fed middle aged men who ought to have been living sensible, grown up lives, not huddling in a dingy Parisian flat and acting like teenagers. I'm sorry to use descriptions like "very good" and leave it at that — perhaps they deserve better — but I'm afraid I just can't get ravingly excited. It's La bohème. There it is.

The intermission feature was the same old thing. I adored Renée as always — she's without a doubt the hostess with the mostess. As always, I got teary at the sight of Natalie in the trailer for La fille du régiment. I liked that Joe Clark the technical director was wearing a tie which matched one of the Act Two canopies. I fell momentarily in love with Tatiana Troyanos during her brief appearance in the Zeffirelli montage. And of course, the quotable line of the night came from Maestro (and cartoon Italian) Nicola Luisotti during his chat with Hostess Renée.

Renée: This orchestra could play this opera in its sleep. How do you keep things fresh?
Luisotti: I sleep with them.

From the ridiculous to the sublime

How could I resist this?

Dorothy Dorow performs Music For Coloratura Soprano, Flute & Piano. I picked it up because the spine was intriguing, but it was the cover — and the bargain price — which clinched it.  Regrettably, the recording itself is only intermittently as hilarious as the cover. As I understand it, it was in modern music that Dorothy Dorow spent the bulk of her career; I can only hope she responded better to that repertoire than to this. In a series of 18th, 19th and 20th century coloratura showpieces, she is resolutely dull and mechanical; the fun only comes when the music gets so ridiculously frilly that her solemn execution of it is hilariously incongruous. My favourite track is her own composition, "Dream". The text, also by Miss Dorow consists of the word "Dream". The piece is a pastiche of various modern styles; it involves some moaning, some snapping of fingers, even a bit of bossa nova. It could almost be a joke but her comments in the liner notes and her straightfaced rendition suggest it is not. I'd love to give it to Patricia Petibon to sing, though — she'd turn it into an uproarious masterpiece. Otherwise this is just mindbogglingly boring, really. It's all very well to treat these as essentially displays of technical mastery, but that doesn't mean they can't be aurally appealing too. Hitting all the notes is no fun if you do it so charmlessly. Compare and contrast Dorow's Morse Code treatment of Eva dell'Acqua's "Villanelle" to Natalie's fluid, shimmery recording of the piece on her Vocalise; or her dry, tedious "Lo! Here the gentle lark" with the version on Yvonne Kenny's Homage to Melba, sung with a spring in her step and a smile in her voice; indeed, when she finally makes it through the very last flight of fioratura, you can hear her laughing. Now that's the spirit in which this kind of repertoire needs to be sung.

And if I couldn't resist that, I certainly wasn't going to say no to this.

This is pretty early for Anne Sofie — the recital dates from 1989. The contents aren't quite as bleak or as unrelentingly wintry as the Oh So Sibelius cover art, though the lyrics certainly contain their fair share of snow and longing. There's the odd sliver of jubilation too, though. I don't need to tell you how well suited Anne Sofie is to this repertoire. She's in gorgeous voice, but then, when isn't she? Her singing here doesn't quite attain the utter lusciousness of, say, her Grieg songs; but it's also free of the (dare I say it?) occasionally offputting idiosyncracies of her more recent recordings — the Abba CD (I know, I know, it's mostly not Abba, but I still have to call it that) and her Music for a While; not her Terezin, though, because that is an out-and-out masterpiece. She reaches surprisingly operatic heights here, but as usual it's still that perfectly formed and ever expressive middle of her voice which provides the true thrills. The dramatic "Flickan kom infrån sin älsklings möte" has long been a favourite song of mine — I learnt most of the words (phonetically, that is) from Karita; Barbara Bonney's has been known to quite literally stop me in my tracks when appearing on Shuffle. Anne Sofie, true to form, sings it magnificently; but to be honest, on this CD, I like her best in lilting, languid mode. Hers is a voice to bask in. And luckily this recital offers plenty of opportunities to do just that.

Räntchen

A question for knowledgeable Wagnerians. Could one of you explain to me, please, the origin of the deeply irritating and misleading "woman in horns" image which, along with caricatures of Luciano Pavarotti, seems long to have been the stock illustration — verbal and visual — of opera. Who is she, and who gave her horns?

I mean, I assume she's meant to be Brünnhilde, but as far as I can see, Brünnhilde's helmet has wings, not horns. After all, she's a Valkyrie, not a Viking I stand corrected — an email from somebody who, unlike me, actually knows (a lot) about these things points out that Valkyries are, in fact, Vikings. I guess what I meant was that she's not one a cartoon Viking warrior; anyway, Vikings apparently didn't go about it horned helmets either. Every time I come across an instance of this — especially from a source which ought to know better — I want to scream. The "woman in horns" exemplifies all that apparently drives people away from opera, so why oh why do I see it on products (books, CDs, etc.) apparently designed to draw more people in? Why not a photo of Anna Netrebko in her Salzburg Traviata dress? Maybe not exactly that, but you know what I mean — if you're trying to convince people to abandon their preconceptions, stop perpetuating the damn things. Surprise them. Say yes, this is opera too and it's not nearly so laughable or so disconcerting as that creature in the horns.

I've been troubled by this for a while. Well, forever really. I bring it up today because I've seen a newly published book by Brian Castles-Onion titled Losing the Plot in Opera. A (very) quick flick suggests it may actually be quite readable and not infested with myths and clichés — the first page I opened to at random mentioned Anna Moffo, which is a reasonably good sign — but the cover caused me (and this isn't poetic license — I was unobserved at the time) to stomp my feet like a two year old and seethe. I don't blame Mr Castles-Onion for the cover. I do blame Exisle. Look, I understand that it's a very recognisable image. A large woman in a cheap Viking costume makes people think opera even before they read the title. It doesn't follow, however, that this is a happy state of affairs. Time for a change — it has to start somewhere.

Update: As the above-mentioned email and comments below indicate, the whole question of horns, both on Vikings and on Wagnerian characters, is evidently far more complex (and downright interesting) than I had imagined. Not at all a simple case of black-and-white anachronisms or error. But the other half of this rant remains unclouded; however complex her horns might be, the woman wearing them still ain't a fair or useful representation of the infinite variety of opera.

Have diva, will travel: American edition

As some of you may remember, two years ago (to the day, as it happens) I announced that I was throwing caution to the wind and flying to the other side of the world in pursuit of diva.

Well, I'm doing it again. My Canadian grandmother is flying me over to Vancouver for a visit. On the way home, I'll spend five nights in San Francisco. The timing is obscenely good. I'm almost jealous of myself.

I'll see my first Das Rheingold, with a cast which includes a serious and long term favourite of mine, the gorgeous Jennifer Larmore. And since I like doing things in order, I'm pleased that my first live Ring opera happens to be the first one.

I'll see Handel's Ariodante. The cast is overwhelmingly starry. Susan Graham sings the title role. Ewa Podles — Ewa Podles!!!! — is Polinesso. And as Ginevra, the woman whose disc of Italian arias was one of the main reasons I fell in love with opera, the woman who essentially introduced me to the concept of bel canto, the ever beautiful Ruth Ann Swenson.

And. I will see. Natalie Dessay in Lucia di Lammermoor. If you read this blog with anything even approaching regularity, you can perhaps begin to imagine just how significant this is for me. Just writing it makes my eyes water. What kind of state I will be in upon seeing her live, and in Lucia, I don't know. Natalie. In Lucia. Repeating it doesn't make it any less mindblowing.

So that's the plan. I fly in June. Meanwhile any suggestions about what to do with the rest of my time in fabulous San Francisco — or insiders' tips on SFOperagoing, for that matter — are of course heartily welcomed.

Tristan und Isolde

Alright, I will deal with the bad things first and in doing so, rid myself of them.

1. Try again, Barbara Willis Sweete. I occasionally saw your point with the split screens. But save them for DVD. They ruin a live broadcast. I may be mistaken, but it's my impression that the appeal of these broadcasts for most people is that they give some sense of what's it's like to attend an opera at the Met. Fifty million little boxes don't achieve that. Quite the opposite. She said something to Peter Gelb about allowing the audience to choose what to see, but in fact, her direction gives us less choice — we have her vision imposed upon us instead. She also said something about offering "relief" from a "static" production. Excuse me? How dare you? Plenty of people have managed to film plenty of similarly "static" operas without resorting to all this ridiculousness. I took to closing my eyes as soon as the frame started shrinking, which worked relatively well but I still resent being obliged to shut my eyes to Debbie. Others were angrier even than I was; I witnessed quite a heated discussion among five women waiting for the loos, all of whom hated in the direction to varying degrees.

2. To the man beside me who started picking, pontificating and finding fault less than a second after the music had ended — have you no soul? It's Tristan und Isolde, for god's sake; is that seriously your immediate response? Also, nobody asked you to interject loudly during Susan Graham's conversation with Sarah Billinghurst. It's a moviecast, not a town hall meeting. Also, if you're going to ridicule Natalie Dessay, at least get her surname right.

3. I bought one of the Chauvel's famous ice cream sandwiches. When I opened the packet, it went flying, rolled under five rows of seats and ended up at the front of the theatre, coated with fluff and dust and totally inedible. This made for exactly the combination of tragedy and comedy you'd expect. I wasn't about to buy a second.

Spleen vented.

The all-encompassing good thing is, of course, Tristan und Isolde itself. And I am in my usual Wagner predicament — the kind of elated rambling I lavish upon everything else seems irrelevant and inappropriate in the face of this sort of music. Experiencing Wagner isn't like experiencing opera, it's a trip to another world. My usual concerns disappear and I'm transported and transfixed. I'm sure I've said these things before, but that's inevitable. My encounters with Wagner are infrequent but as a rule transcendent. And this was Tristan und Isolde, for heaven's sake. My very first Tristan und Isolde ever. Imagine that. As always with Wagner, I just wish it was longer and that there weren't intervals. Although really, I'm not sure Wagner and time have much of a relationship. Objectively the operas are long, but to me it always seems that they just take as long as they need to in order to be what they are, which is perfect. Neither fast nor slow paced, just Wagner paced. I really don't know if this makes sense. Wagner does not make me make sense.

I love Deborah Voigt for various reasons but still didn't know quite what to expect from her Isolde. She was beautiful. No, maybe there isn't quite so much billowingly silky voice to get lost in now, but I don't care. And never having seen her in action before, I was surprised by her grace and simple, believable stage presence. At the end of the Liebestod I would have preferred the theatre to stay dark and silent for a good five or ten minutes, to let me have a bit of a cry and gather myself back together.

As for, in the words of Gilligan's Island, "the rest" — Robert Dean Smith sang a good Tristan, and that in itself is no mean feat. He was really quite jawdropping in the last act. I would have liked to have seen Ben Heppner or Gary Lehman, but no matter. Matti Salminen was amazing as King Marke. Michelle de Young was a pretty wonderful Brangaene. Oh, look, I don't have a word to say against any of the cast, that's so not the point.

Susan Graham lacks the slightly mad adorability of Renée Fleming as intermission host, but still did a pretty charming job of it. The interview with Debbie was the best; Debbie is a very funny woman, as I already knew.

Despite the split screens, I would almost go back for a second helping. Debbie's Liebestod would be reason enough. But the encore screening is, of necessity, on a weekday morning, so out of the question. Anyway, I've finally had my first Tristan. More, I suppose, will have to follow.