Prima la musica, poi le parole

Stellar

The puns are irresistible — as Stella-for-star in Opera Australia's Streetcar, Antoinette Halloran is just that. A star. Or rather, a star. Just Google antoinette halloran streetcar and on the very first page, you'll see all the raves. "The standout performance was Antoinette Halloran's." "The star of the show is undoubtedly Antoinette Halloran." "Antoinette Halloran is outstanding." You'll also see my words: "Antoinette Halloran is a revelation."

All of it true. Alongside three singers with well-established and glittering international careers, Antoinette — whose name still seems always to come prefaced with the words "rising soprano" — not only holds her own but creates perhaps the biggest sensation of the four of them. No mean feat when you've Teddy in his shirtlessness to compete with. She is helped somewhat, it's true, by Previn's writing for Stella, which is among the most immediately appealing music in the opera. Elizabeth Futral, for whom the role was written, also steals the show on Deutsche Grammophon's recording of the premiere.

Nevertheless, that only goes so far. What makes Antoinette's performance special is Antoinette herself. Her Stella is a tour de force, vividly characterised and stunningly well sung. She breezes through Previn's challenging music as if to the manner born, combining a crystal clear upper register with a wealth of darker, more sensuous colours. Sweet yet strong, just like Stella. In "I can hardly stand it" she moves between radiant, youthful adoration and a more explicit and adult longing; the raw power with which she imbues the word "wild" is startling. The brief Act Three duet with Stanley is another memorably gorgeous moment, her phrasing fluent and persuasive — the moving way she sings "she's my sister" sticks in my mind still. Her acting is likewise persuasive. There's a look she throws Blanche just before "I can hardly stand it", when Blanche deems it a relief that Stanley is "on the road a lot", which on its own says as much as the aria which follows. The cinematic Stella of Kim Hunter was a slightly childish, simple figure, not hugely endearing; but Antoinette brings such humanity and compassion to the role as to make Stella touchingly sympathetic.

I said she was a revelation, and so she is — certainly to me. Her voice was not what I expected; it was better, stronger and more interesting than I had imagined. Though I'd seen her once before (in Sweeney Todd) I really wasn't sure what to anticipate from her Stella. So it has been a delight to discover such an excellent performance. And such a complete performance, as exciting theatrically as vocally. This star doesn't merely twinkle; she scintillates. Brava, Antoinette.

Rights and wrongs

I readily admit that despite all the attention I've lavished upon it, I don't by any means consider A Streetcar Named Desire a particularly amazing opera. There's a certain affection that comes from familiarity — and a thrill in finally hearing something so familiar brought to life in performance. But there are plenty of things I don't like about it. The fact is that even in its best and most melodically interesting moments, the music still doesn't do much more than simply carry the action. When I engage with this opera, I engage with it as drama; the music really only matters to me insofar as it supports that drama. By way of contrast, take, say, Figaro. I could adore Figaro without necessarily following the plot or caring what happened. Or how about I puritani? I still don't really know what happens in that opera — or why Queen Henrietta is in it — but I nevertheless engage with the music. I can spend a day humming "Qui la voce", and I can appreciate that aria regardless of its dramatic context. The music has a presence in the world — and in my consciousness — independent of the words. But I never hum Streetcar. I do spend days with parts of it on loop in my brain but always with the words foremost.

This is not a blanket dismissal. There are passages of Streetcar which do have that musical independence and very real appeal. Stella's vocalise is the most obvious — attached as I am to Blanche, it's always that tune which remains with me as I leave the theatre. And there's a wonderful swinging little tune in the interlude before Scene Two, Act I which always has me swaying. But otherwise, when the music is at its most exciting and most vivid, that's because of the actions and/or words it's coupled with. It's illustrative, sometimes quite powerfully so — but I don't think that's actually enough in the end.

There are other infelicities, both textual as well as musical. I'm not particularly fond of the libretto. I realise Phillip Littell didn't have a great deal of room to move but I still question some of his choices. I've gone into that in (possibly excessive) detail in my dissection and won't repeat myself too much. Now that I've seen the thing staged, I'll concede some of those choice make a bit more sense. But some still don't. I'm afraid I'm still inordinately outraged at the omission of one single word — "children". Even leaving aside the dramatic merit or otherwise of some of Littell's changes, though, what troubles me are the instances where those changes seem to me to betray an actual mistake or a misunderstanding of the play. There's the fact that he's added sixty-three pounds to Mitch's weight. And at the beginning of Act Three, there's a point at which Stanley says "temperature a hundred on the nose" which is supposed to refer to the temperature outside but which now refers to the bathroom. I know these kinds of things seem terribly trivial written out like this, but nevertheless they just make me wonder at the depth of thought which has gone into this adaptation.

One of my favourite things about Opera Australia's production is that it does deal quite nicely with some of the things I've found problematic about the opera. One major improvement — I can't not say it — is the absence of Renée Fleming. Renée is many things; she is not a Blanche. I know Previn wrote it for her. All I can say to that is — he shouldn't have. By which I don't necessarily mean he should have written it for Yvonne Kenny. It quite possibly requires a different kind of voice altogether, one more naturally suggestive of fragility. But of the two, I truly do believe the sound Yvonne makes is a better fit for Blanche than Renée's. Neither exactly screams fragility but to my ears there's a certain delicacy and transparency in Yvonne's singing which is not to be had from Renée. Temperamentally I'm not sure if either is wholly ideal but Yvonne comes closer — after a career full of queens and countesses and virtuous, well-adjusted young women, she manages to channel her inner Lucia quite briliantly for Act Three.

Other little things mean a lot. One detail which makes me rather happy is how the Act Two prologue has been staged. There's plenty happening in the pit so there needs to be something happening above. So Blanche is writing a letter. Perfect. Because if you know the play, you know there's a pretty substantial scene missing here, in which Blanche writes to her former beau Shep Huntleigh — her first attempt to extricate Stella and herself from New Orleans. Nobody ever mentions Shep Huntleigh in the opera, but at least now he's at least vaguely implied. The concept of a letter is a nice fit to the music, too, which starts with city hustle and bustle and suggestions of rough and ready Stanley before dissolving into something lyrical and Blanche-ish. It's a summary of all the contrasts and conflicts so far, so it's appropriate that it should accompany a letter in which Blanche writes and thinks about the very same thing.

Another aspect of the opera which troubled me listening to the recording was the overimportance which Previn's vocal writing occasionally gives to Blanche's throwaway lines. Blanche speaks quickly, frenetically and endlessly. She speaks before thinking; so it doesn't make a huge deal of sense to triple underline every statement she makes. The first example which springs to mind is one of Blanche's more quotable lines — "I won't be looked at in this merciless glare", which in the opera becomes "Don't look at me. Not in this merciless glare". In the film, Vivien Leigh just tosses that line off, almost as a joke. Previn makes it a Big Moment, complete with a climactic high note on the first syllable of "merciless glare". But Bruce Beresford and Yvonne Kenny between them have played it down as much as possible. She hits the note lightly, doesn't force it; and her gestures remain lighthearted and non tragic. We know Blanche's fear of light runs much deeper, but that facet of her character has plenty of time to develop — it doesn't need to be spelt out in big bold capitals just yet. (And just by the by — I happen to think the way Yvonne sings "merciless" is one of the best sounds I've ever heard her make. And I've heard her make quite a few.) The very fact that this can be done, of course, suggests that the problem mightn't lie in entirely in the writing; it might be due in part to Renée. Either way, it's nice to have it sung in a way which makes more sense.

And generally speaking, that's one of this production's best qualities. Previn's Streetcar isn't necessarily the most blindingly brilliant opera, but Bruce Beresford, Tom Woods and everybody else involved have, for the most part, made as much sense of it as possible. If this production succeeds — and it definitely does — I daresay it's they, rather than the opera in and of itself, who are ultimately responsible for that. Well done to the lot of them.

Nuit blanche

A Streetcar Named Desire

Opera Australia's new production of André Previn's A Streetcar Named Desire has a great deal going for it. I'll get to all of that in a moment. But its biggest advantage is the most obvious one of all — it is A Streetcar Named Desire. Transformed into an opera, it remains well and truly the beautiful baby of Tennessee Williams, a work of incandescent genius which any relatively faithful realisation would have difficulty destroying.

Phillip Littell's libretto isn't always the most subtly wrought adaptation but it nevertheless remains very close to its source. Even where the poetry is lost, the plot is not — and in Williams' play, both aspects are as enthralling as each other. Whereas in previous centuries we can find operas whose primary claim to brilliance is their music, inspired enough to make libretto and plot secondary concerns, Streetcar works in reverse. Provided it was set with a reasonable degree of intelligence and flair, it would always have fascinated because the story it tells is fascinating. There's very little could mask the essential shimmer and glow of this play and its beguiling protagonist. If it sounds like I'm saying that any kind of operatic Streetcar given any kind of production would be some kind of success, that's because I more or less am. If Tennessee Williams' basic creation is left intact then the result, even if lacklustre, could never be wholly hideous.

Lacklustre, however, this Streetcar most certainly is not. Opera Australia has lavished the best of everything upon it and such pampering has paid off spectacularly well. Every aspect of this production has been realised with intelligence, sensitivity and passionate engagement. Designer John Stoddart's production is of startling, spectral beauty. His sets are realistic but not quite real, New Orleans Gothic in greys and blacks. The women are dressed in pastels — Blanche always in shades of blue; Stanley as plain and practical as can be until the terrifying appearance of his devil-red silk pjyamas. Michael Gruchy's film projections are used to mesmerising effect — images of Belle Reve and old South grandeur which bleed hauntingly in and out of the rundown Kowalski home. Bruce Beresford's direction is subtle and surefooted, concerned at every moment to present truth and not melodrama. Even where Previn's setting is at its most sweepingly operatic, he never allows things to go over the top. He strikes an ideal balance between musical showcase and credible theatre, so that you'd almost — but never entirely — forget it was an opera. Tom Woods is an attentive and revelatory conductor, bringing out exciting colours and sounds that even in eight months of immersion in the Deutsche Grammophon recording, I'd never entirely appreciated before. What a difference a theatre makes. Previn's jazz and blues inspired phrases come to far more vivid life with space in which to breathe than squashed onto a CD, and what seemed needlessly complex orchestration makes far more sense when matched to action onstage. I'm still not in love with the score but I felt more affection for it last night than I have all year.

Animating this enchanting framework is a spectacularly strong cast, with even the smallest roles given excellent and individualised voice. Dominica Matthews is superb as Eunice Hubbell, imbuing Previn's slightly merciless Sprechstimme lines with as much music as possible and resisting the temptation to caricature which such a brief role could easily afford. Tenor Andrew Brunsdon is spot on as her rough and slightly hopeless husband, Steve. As the Spanish flower-seller, Catherine Carby is a wonderful luxury. Her monologue is one of the opera's oddest passages, a cryptic tirade about death and fire and flowers. On the DG recording it's given a dementedly exaggerated reading by Josepha Gayer which recalls nothing so much as Bela Lugosi's inexplicable ranting in the Ed Wood classic Glen or Glenda?. Catherine's more understated performance — and much sweeter voice — turn this scene from laughable to genuinely eerie and effective. Angus Wood is convincingly earnest and awkward as the young collector whom Blanche half seduces.

Antoinette Halloran is a revelation. She expertly captures both Stella's powerful attraction to Stanley and her genuine love and compassion for her sister. This is not the earthy, slightly immature Stella of Elia Kazan's film. Antoinette's Stella — indeed, Previn's Stella — is a bit more thoughtful and sympathetic. She adores Stanley to distraction — the physical chemistry between them is evident, but so too is a gentler affection. Previn gives Stella some of the opera's loveliest, purest music, which Antoinette sings with poise and surprising power. Her "I can hardly stand it" in Act One is glittering and impassioned; her morning-after vocalise at the end of the same act a smoky, sensual knockout. I can only hope she has opportunities to perform the role elsewhere — this is a truly impressive performance.

As Mitch, Stuart Skelton is one of most perfect pieces of casting I've ever seen. He's built for the role. This is an important concern in any case, but especially so because Mitch actually sings his measurements. That said — they're wrong. Phillip Littell, for reasons known only to himself, has made Mitch a full sixty-three pounds heavier than in the play — he goes from 207 to 270. For Stuart, they've shaved a few inches off Mitch's height as well; but at 6'1 he's still just as imposing as Blanche tells him he is. Much more important, of course, is his vocal suitability — and he's an absolute dream. He shapes Mitch's surprisingly elegant lines beautifully, his easy, mellifluous sound underpinned by just enough heldentenor solidity. It's just the right mix for Mitch, youthful sweetness edged with something a bit heavier — a diamond in the rough. His acting conveys much the same sense — a genuinely sweet natured boy, if a bit dopey and awkward. Even when he's drunk and gets rough with Blanche, his movements and reactions speak more of bewilderment and disillusionment than real violence.

Teddy Tahu Rhodes brings his very own brand of charisma and physicality to the role of Stanley. The self declared "king around here", he dominates his home (and his wife) with calm and unselfconscious assurance. Stanley is the polar opposite of Blanche — there's no affectation here, nothing false. He's as natural in his tender moments with Stella as he is in his violent treatment of Blanche — whatever he does, he does because he feels it's his right. Thus there's an odd sort of sincerity to his character which prevents him becoming entirely despicable. He's brutal, yes — but not necessarily malicious. Though he looks like Lucifer himself when he emerges from the bathroom in his red silk pyjamas, his most hideous act — his rape of Blanche — is driven more by a primal, animal urge than calculated evil. That's not an excuse. Stanley is still bad news — but in Teddy's hands he's at least three dimensional bad news. His voice, in its own way, is just powerful — and utterly unmistakeably. Teddy sounds quite unlike anybody. It's a dark, deep-set, bronzed kind of sound. Smooth as smooth can be but at the same time richly textured, full of glorious and surprising vocal colours. It maybe isn't always the most conventionally attractive voice (or maybe that's just me) but there's a definite allure to it just the same, not to mention irresistible authority. Little wonder this is his fourth Stanley.

Blanche. Yvonne Kenny is Blanche. I mean that — Yvonne Kenny is Blanche. She's not Vivien Leigh's Blanche, so small and fragile that you want to look after her right from the start. Nor is she Renée Fleming's Blanche, oversized and overtly tragic. Yvonne's Blanche takes a little longer to warm to. The cracks in the façade don't show straight away — thus in the first act we see her mostly as she wishes to appear; or in the way she's perceived by others. Prim, superior. A little insincere. Of course, there are moments. In front of the mirror, before Stella arrives — "I look so old". But she maintains the lie quite well for the first act. Then in the second act she starts to crumble and it's here that her performance really blooms and draws us in. Her gestures have been so contained and refined that when Stanley finally gets to her and she starts thrusting papers violently into his hands — then stops just as suddenly and regains composure — the effect is quite shocking. She portrays Blanche's descent into madness with heartbreaking stillness, a stillness which makes Stanley's every push and shove that much more brutal. In the scene with the young collector she is mesmerising. Just before Stanley brings her to her lowest point, she is at her most breathtakingly beautiful, a vision of loveliness in her ballgown and tiara. It doesn't look like a "worn out Mardi Gras outfit" at all; she looks perfect and so when Stanley pushes her and the clasp comes undone and she's left exposed in her slip, the cruelty and humiliation are that much worse.

In Blanche, Previn has devised one of the most taxing roles in the soprano repertoire. Just the psychology of it is an immense emotional undertaking. It also has to be sung. It is not an easy sing — it's incredibly long and vocally demanding. At a point in her career when nobody would look askance at her for sticking to recitals and vineyard concerts and the odd Hanna Glawari, Yvonne has taken up this monumental challenge instead — and she emerges transcendentally victorious. She throws herself into this music with a lyrical forcefulness and fullness of tone which surprised even me. Blanche's music reflects her mental fragmentation, alternating between frantic, spiky vocal writing and comparative peace, with simpler, more conventional music. She's in electrifying command in both states. The story of her young husband is riveting, brought with exquisite judgement to its unbearable climax. Her pianissimi are celestial. And the truth is, if you don't happen to be among the 10543 or so people who will see this show in Sydney, your life will be forever poorer for having missed her "I want magic!" — a thing of such sublime beauty I can't trust even my own floridity to do it justice. Yvonne's Blanche is an extraordinary achievement — among her finest to date — and a priceless gift.

Indeed this production in its entirety is one to be treasured. Even with a few opening night hiccups, last night was a singularly powerful performance. As the season progresses, I've no doubt it will intensify and improve even further — and when it does, it'll be electric. Opera Australia has something rare and valuable  on its hands. A remarkable triumph for all concerned.