From Taiwan I flew to Sydney and then, after a few days of shopping and catching up with friends and former colleagues, on to Brisbane, for Opera Queensland's Tosca. Or rather, for Cheryl Barker's Tosca. The list of Sopranos I Will Travel For has only one consistent entry, and Cheryl is it. I couldn't justify an Australian trip for her Capriccio earlier this year, but this Tosca I was determined to see.
Now, if had still been living in Sydney, a quick trip to Brisbane and back would have been no big deal — I might have even done it on two consecutive weekends, to see more shows — but arranging such a trip in the midst of this year's travels required more advanced logistical skills. It was fortunate, then, that the Taiwan Fidelio put me at least put me in vaguely the right part of the world. Had I been coming from Europe, it would have been a much more gruelling trip: getting back over here (I arrived in Dresden last night) from Sydney took roughly 38 hours.
Would I have travelled 38 hours to see Cheryl's Tosca? You bet I would have. Maybe that's the sheer lunacy of devotion speaking, but she repays me so completely for any effort or money I spend in seeing her, that I've always felt I had the better end of the deal. In truth, she transcends all those boring, quotidian things — booking fees and airplane food and unwieldy broken-handled suitcase — anyway, so that the question of whether she's worth the price is irrelevant. She's Cheryl, she's my diva, and she's priceless.
Her Tosca did to me what all of Cheryl's characters do to me the moment she turns her hand to playing them: she changed for the better, gained an extra degree of warmth, sympathy and just plain irresistibility. She always finds room for a revelation (or at least a revelation to me) in every role, even something like Tosca, where so many have gone before. I always love a character more when she's passed through the Cheryl Barker filter, and Tosca — whom I've always respected but never felt especially close to — was no exception.
I loved the sweetness and lighthearted humour she brought to her Act I interactions with Mario, her jealous behaviour — which tends to irritate me — delivered with enough self-awareness to make it endearing instead. I loved also the intense play of emotions in her eyes in Act II, as she gripped the knife and built herself up to the fatal moment. And her naïve optimism in Act III broke my heart almost as much as Cio-Cio San's does, which is saying something. I've never loved Tosca like I do Butterfly, but in Brisbane, let me tell you, I came close. It was also a joy to hear such a remarkably organic and sensitively developed Vissi d'arte, not always the case with such a famous set piece of an aria.
Lest I be accused of ignoring everybody else, let me say that we had a wonderfully heartfelt Cavaradossi in Julian Gavin, a malevolent, dark-voiced Scarpia in Douglas McNicol (best Sharpless ever!) and very buffo Sacristan in the inimitable John Bolton Wood. Most of the rest of the cast were making role débuts, and all did so admirably. The chorus were excellent, the orchestra better still, and I liked Nicholas Braithwaite's majestic and highly dramatic reading of the score a lot.
John Copley's production has been around a long time, and is as traditional a Tosca as you could hope to find, but unlike some productions of similar vintage, this one deserves its longevity, because it still works incredibly well. It's as opulent as it needs to be, but not overstuffed with crowds or lavish costumes, and it tells the story clearly and with strong theatrical instincts. Beyond that, it just gets the hell out of the way and lets great performers do what they do best: bring the opera to life. Which is exactly what this cast (and revival director Cath Dadd) did.
I cannot, however, tell a lie. This was an excellent show in all its facets (probably one of the best all-round nights at the opera I've had this year, in fact) but I was there for Cheryl alone and oh my, it was wonderful to see and hear her again for the first time in very nearly a year. I don't think I realised how much I'd missed her until I heard that first offstage "Mario!" and got, yes, a bit teary. Just to hear that incredibly familiar and oh-so-glorious voice again, and to watch her weave her very particular magic, as I have so many times before, was a beautiful thing. It was at least as much a homecoming as when I'd arrived in Sydney a few days earlier; possibly even more so.
I've had an extraordinary year of opera. Even I can't really grasp the people and places I've seen, the voices I've heard, or the fascinating backstage world to which I've been gradually admitted. Yet with the sole exception of my own particular tenor (and that's different anyway) Cheryl still wins. She's still the highest highlight, just as she always was. I always knew she was my favourite in the world, and this year's adventures have only served to make me even surer. Vive la reine.
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