Prima la musica, poi le parole

Butterfly Diaries, Part IX: NOT Cheryl's Last Butterfly

If you read this blog regularly, you probably read an earlier incarnation of this post. In it, I talked about what a fitting farewell this performance was, since I had been given to believe that it was Cheryl Barker's last Butterfly ever. But, as you'll see if you read the comments, I've been reliably informed that this is not the case. Opera Australia's subscription booklet — which I've just checked to make sure I didn't invent the whole thing — says "Cheryl Barker recreates the title role for one last season" but evidently that means something else. So, rather than perpetuate a misconception, I've amended this post to reflect the truth. It's worth noting, though, that I've actually changed very little . The fact that it was not a farewell doesn't make this performance any less exceptional. I actually think I might be even more impressed now, discovering that the special charge which Monday night's performance carried — and there definitely was something different about it, farewell or not — was not, after all, the product of special circumstances, but just of Cheryl Barker's limitless artistry. Had it indeed been her farewell, it would have been a perfect one. That it was not; that it was, in a sense, "just another Butterfly" — and that there are more to come — is an indication of just how special she is.

Act One was business as usual. What a terribly misleading sentence that is on its own. You have to understand (and if you have had the stomach to read parts I to VIII of these diaries, perhaps you already do) that business as usual for Cheryl Barker is neither business, nor usual. It's art, and it's extraordinary, and it's freshly created every single time. The predictable aspects of her artistry are those which make her so exciting: her gutsy, gorgeous singing, her responsive acting, her vivid self assurance, her capacity for spontaneity without chaos. All that is standard Cheryl. 

That's what Act One was like. A Cio Cio San as good as they come, as beautifully wrought as Cheryl's Cio Cio San always is, and not quite like any of her others, because, (un)like snowflakes, no two have ever been exactly the same. Perhaps she was a slightly more fragile and serious Cio Cio San this time than the last. Actually, the differences from performance to performance are more complex than any pair of adjectives I can throw at them. At any rate, she was wonderful in the way I expected her to be wonderful, all the tiny revelatory surprises included. Since I thought it was her farewell performance, I couldn't help watching her with that in mind, wondering if the added emotional charge of a farewell affecting her performance. Sometimes I fancied I could hear or see that it was, but it could just as easily have been the power of suggestion on my part — and now I know that it must have been.

Still, I think a turning point came in "Un bel dì". Near the beginning — I couldn't tell you now on which phrase — something changed. I have heard her sing this aria so many times, and while no two renditions have been identical, they've all borne a sisterly resemblance. Not this one. On that pivotal line, whichever line it was, her voice was suddenly different. It didn't crack or falter, but it softened where it had never softened before. I couldn't swear to it — she's such an actress that it's often hard to tell — but I had the idea she had begun to cry. And everything seemed to change. Colours, phrasing, expression, the look in her eyes, the way she moved, the whole soul of the aria — everything. I can't describe the change in any way that will make sense. All I know is that for once this aria — an aria I thought I knew my way around and which, as beautiful as her rendition of it unfailingly is, has never been my number one most devastating Butterfly moment — had me sitting quite literally openmouthed and in copious tears. "Un bel dì" has never done that to me. Not once. Ever. And it did. It was, with apologies for the egregious cliché, like hearing it for the very first time.

Whatever had wrought the change —and I now have less idea than ever what that might have been— it held fast for the rest of the performance, which grew from merely (!) exquisite to (yes, I will stick to this description) valedictory. And we are not talking about a soprano sobbing her way through a performance, although that would be special enough. Yes, there were a lot of tears, but there were a lot of other things going on too — an overall impression of heightened, raw emotion, in the highs as much as the lows, and of a strange, paradoxical combination of increased vulnerability alongside blazing newfound courage. She seems to have mastered the art of abandonment without recklessness, of giving herself up utterly to any given role and exploring all its vocal and dramatic extremes without veering into that scary territory of potential derailment. Her commitment is always thrilling — and I didn't think she could take it any further, but somehow she did. It seemed nothing was off limits. 

And do you know what I love? That she did all of this without turning the night into anything except a totally riveting performance of Madama Butterfly. There was no self indulgence — there never is. Whatever the added emotion, if such there was, it was all put to the service of Cio Cio San. With or without the mistaken idea of a farewell in mind, I doubt anybody could have been unmoved by this. From the most assiduous attendee (ie me) to the most casual tourist — from the devoted fan with a dozen Cheryl Butterflies to compare (me again...) to the novitiate who'd never heard her name until that night — this was a Butterfly with the capacity to devastate anybody. 

So it's over. Tutto è finito, for now. This has been a wonderful trip. You'd think ten performances would have exhausted me, and if I were sensible, perhaps that would be true. I should be all Butterflied (Butterflown?) out, but instead, every time I hear this opera, I adore it, and its heroine, a little bit more. That's down to Cheryl. She wasn't technically my first Butterfly but she was without a doubt the first who made me understand and love her. And now I am a Butterfly addict: Leontyne,Mirella, Renata, Maria, Renata, Antoinette, Daniela, Patricia, and the list goes on. Even Angela, soon. They might not all be singers I otherwise adore, but for as long as they're singing Cio Cio San, I'm putty in their hands. Cheryl will always be my favourite, though: and as wonderful as it was to experience what I thought was a glorious farewell, I'm even happier to learn that I don't have to say goodbye yet to this very special Butterfly. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part VIII

You will have to forgive me, I don't know where this post might go — or if I should be writing it at this hour — but I have the sort of feeling that this Butterfly deserves to be written about with the same energy it created. Or something.

But what I can I say that I haven't said already? And what does it matter, since surely nobody is still reading these Butterfly posts anyway, and I can hardly blame you — you who are not reading this — if that's the case. If I wasn't me, I'd probably roll my eyes and give up on me too. I am me, however, and there's a reason — many reasons — I have this blog. One of them being, it prevents me from doing what I so frequently wish I could, namely, take a stick of chalk to the Opera House concourse and write, at the bottom of the escalators, in Big Bold Letters: Cheryl, ti adoro! Of course I've neither the nerve or the calligraphy skills for such an act of (albeit temporary) vandalism, so I do this instead. I write and write and write and come to the same conclusion. Cheryl, ti adoro. 

Oh, but I'm conjugating that verb all wrong. It should be WE love you, don't you think? I realise not everbody is as mad as me — and a good thing that is, too — but I know I am far from alone in taking pride in Our Cheryl. I'm sure I've said this before, but I never feel more Australian than after I've heard Cheryl sing — because if I want to claim her as OURS, not yours or theirs, then I can't separate myself. If not Australian Australian, then I am, at least, Opera Australian.

This is appalling. I didn't mean to go quite so overboard. Or did I? At any rate, I'm not deleting it, so as excessive as I've been, evidently I'm still prepared to stand by every word. In the sobre light of morning, I still will be. I might roll my eyes at the language I've used, not to mention the punctuation, but change my mind? Never.

And yet I know — or fear, anyway — that I am becoming the Girl Who Cried Diva. I do this sort of thing so often, why would you believe me this time. The only answer I can offer is that, unlike my wolf-crying counterpart, every time I say it, it's true. This rave might outdo the last, but it doesn't negate it. It troubles me though. I had assumed I would be able to hold this kind of thing back until next Monday — the final Butterfly — but here it is, tumbling out, and I apparently unwilling to stem the flow. 

Sleep calls, and (comparative) sanity beckons somewhere in the distance, so I will go soon. Before I do, though, a few things which I want to set down here, if for no other reason than to back up my own memories. I want to remember the tiny, quiet, introspective way she sang her "Vogliatemi bene" tonight — more to herself than to Pinkerton, a little window into a fragile emotional existence. I've never heard her sing it quite like that. I want to remember the little gale of laughter in the midst of "mio piccolo amor", the way the words "l'arsa fronte" disappeared into breathless excitement and the triumphant anticipation in "che pensi? un'ora!". I want to remember how she spoke, rather than sang, "tutto è morto per me...tutto è finito" and "mio figlio". I want to remember the stage business she omitted from the final scenes — when Kate and Sharpless left, she didn't fall prone on the floor, just knelt and slowly crumbled; and there was no crawling to the door after her son before the suicide, she simply remained where she was, watched him leave, and cried. Less was more. Nothing could be more heartbreaking than her face — except her voice.

Enough. I fear I'll have nothing left for next Monday. Except I'm afraid, for your sake — you, again, who are quite understandably not reading all of this rambling — that I certainly will find more to say next Monday. Can't be helped. Or rather, it can be helped but I have zero intention of doing the helping. I am crazy, and I don't care. I'm crazy, but happy. Cheryl, ti adoro.

 

Everything at once

The problem with opera blogging is that it requires both time to see opera and time to write about it, and lately I've had plenty of the former and none of the latter. But now, at last, a moment to breathe — only a moment, I have a Butterfly on Monday — so it seems like the time to catch up. Can I, though? With three operas and a concert to cover, I fear that if each has its own post, they'll all just fade into oblivion halfway down the page. So I will attempt (no promises) to be brief and cover all four in one post. In chronological order.

Die Zauberflöte

I saw this for the third time on Tuesday evening. Mad as I am, even I thought it was a little odd that I was so determined to see it yet again, since (excellent individual performances aside) I didn't exactly have a marvellous time at either of the other two. Still,  I was determined to see the second cast in its entirety, and this was the first night on which they were all scheduled to sing — although I believe most, if not all, of them ended up substituting for indisposed members of the first cast earlier in the run as well. So off I duly trooped, to sit all by my lonesome in E-reserve, and there discovered a reason for my persistence — this was absolutely the best of the three.

Maybe it was the change of cast, or maybe the experience of a longish season, but Ollivier-Philippe Cunéo's leadership was much improved, a livelier and more stylish reading. Henry Choo and Hye Seoung Kwon were an ardent pair of lovers, more youthful than their predecessors (Andrew Goodwin and Emma Matthews respectively). Choo hasn't Goodwin's regal bearing, and he isn't, to be honest, much of an actor, but there's an amiable liveliness to his stage presence which made him, if not the more convincing Tamino, perhaps the more sympathetic. I can't fault Emma Matthews for a moment — she was a beautiful Pamina — but Hye Seoung Kwon's voice is one I respond to far more readily, and for that reason I preferred her, though it's true she hasn't yet all of Emma's subtlety or polish. Her accent was noticeable in the English dialogue but didn't interfere with her ability to act: she was well matched to Henry as a young, slightly petulant princess, her mother's daughter as well as her father's. Fabulous Emma Pearson remains this season's Queen par excellence; Lorina Gore struck me as having all the agility and high notes (it's definitely an exciting voice) but not quite the vocal or temperamental ferocity for the role. Andrew Moran as Papageno beat Warwick Fyfe hands down, as far as I was concerned. As excellent as Warwick undoubtledly is in the role, he just wasn't quite my cup of tea, but Andrew, with the same costume, same lines and same basic characterisation, had me laughing out loud where Warwick had raised only a smile. I also happen to love his voice, which helps; his "Nun, wohlan..." was beautiful. Among the unchanged cast, everyone sang at least as well before. Daniel Sumegi was perhaps more impressive than earlier in the run. The Three Ladies are still one of the show's vocal highlights and Catherine Carby is still a star. Also, Sarah Crane! But more about that shortly.

Werther

Genuine brevity here, as I still have two reviews to write. Fabulous singing across the board, especially from Aldo di Toro who will melt your kneecaps. Michèle Losier is an exciting import, very well chosen. Having seen the show, it's slightly strange to think Pamela Helen Stephen was the original Charlotte: I'd be more than happy to hear her sing the role, but I can't see her fitting into the Moshinsky/Neidhardt/Leona Edmiston conception of it. Stephen Bennett is wonderful, of course. I really, really like the production, but I have a sneaking suspicion that's going to be a minority opinion. Just one other point: when did Sarah Crane become so fantastic? She was fine as Oberto and Micaela, but didn't strike me as extraordinary; but as the First Lady and now as a completely wonderful Sophie (I just adored her) she has definitely got my attention. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part VII

Inevitably, after the transcendance of Saturday's performance, this was a slightly more earthbound experience. But still, it was a Cheryl Barker Butterfly, so you can fill in the rest. I have said this a million times, but I don't care — I'm still in awe of her ability to make it new every single time. Even if it's just a phrase here or there, or her pretty portamento on "il thè", or how much she cries before killing herself, there's just always some new little revelation to be found, always a fresh thought. Besides which, you haven't lived until you've heard Cheryl's "Con onor muore". 

Friday's performance brought the bonus of Jacqueline Dark as Suzuki, stepping in for an indisposed Catherine Carby; as we know, I am always always happy to see Jacqui, and she was her gorgeous self. (We always call Suzuki a thankless role, but I'd imagine having Cheryl Barker sing "Un bel di" with her head on your shoulder sits pretty high on the job satisfaction scale.) Rosario La Spina is mostly listenable as Pinkerton, though he still has a tendency to croon his high notes and he's often near-inaudible when the orchestration is heavy — most notably on those fina and rather important cries of "Butterfly!" We all know I'm not a fan, so I won't dwell on the point, but I'll concede there's an Italianate quality to his singing which is not without its appeal. I just wish he'd vary his delivery more — everything I've heard him sing, from Puccini to Dvorak to Bizet, has sounded more or less the same. Whether by accident (he's no actor) or design, he's a completely unsympathetic Pinkerton, in fact he's a sort of non-entity: an out-and-out cad would be one thing, but La Spina's Pinkerton doesn't really display much interest at all in his Butterfly, predatory or otherwise. Barry Ryan's Sharpless, on the other hand, is a stronger, more dignified presence than ever, aided perhaps by comparison to Pinkerton. The dynamic between the two characters seems to have changed with the change of tenor. There's not much sense now of a friendship between the two men: instead Sharpless seems barely to tolerate his rather detestable compatriot, and in the final act the look in his eyes is of outright disgust. 

Only one Cherylful week remains, with a Butterfly on Monday, the Four Last Songs on Friday, and one final Butterfly — her last ever, it seems — the following Monday. We're too spoilt. I almost (but don't) feel guilty.

Miriam Allan & Ironwood

This was tonight's Musica Viva concert. Miriam Allan is described everywhere as a "protegée of Emma Kirkby", which made me wary of attending, but curiosity — not to mention a free ticket — tempted me there, and I'm glad. She certainly is a soprano in the Kirkby mold, but in the best sense: she has a pure, agile soprano with impeccable early music style. It was a very appealing programme, Purcell songs and dances in the first half, followed by Handel's  Trio Sonata in D major and his motet Silete venti. Allan had a knack for making sure that small, sweet voice of her carried as far as it needed to, and both her diction and her engagement with the text were exemplary. Her wistful "Fair Cedaria" was beautiful, and she brought a bittersweet balance of sighs and wry humour to "If love's a sweet passion". Ironwood seemed at its best when in tandem with their soprano; the Trio Sonata was warmly played but didn't seem quite as focused or vivid as the other items. Silete venti was brilliantly sung and played, especially its striking introductory Sinfonia. The aria "Date serta, date flores" (whose orchestration bears a strong family resemblance to "Meine Seele hört im Sehen", one of the Nine German Arias) was excellent, especially in Allan's sensitively ornamented da capo, and was followed by a cheery (and immaculately sung) presto Alleluia. Best of all, however, was the sole encore. Allan explained that as a child, "growing up in Newcastle" [cue supportive hoot from the gallery] the ultimate thrill was to find one's name in a book. Since Miriam proved a hard one to find, Allan's father suggested a song instead — and so her encore was a virtuosic and utterly delightful "Oh had I Jubal's lyre...or Miriam's tuneful voice". Humble strains indeed. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part VI

Just when you thought you were safe! Never fear, I'll be (for me) brief. Count yourselves lucky. If I'd managed to write this post within 48 hours of the performance, it would have been a very, very long one. At this distance I have calmed down slightly. Slightly. We'll get to that.

But the evening did not have a promising beginning. For the very first time in my entire operagoing life, I lost my ticket. Five minutes earlier, it had been in my hand, but when I went to make a final check — I check my tickets obsessively — it had disappeared. Panic. I dashed to the service desk and a pathetically comical scene ensued: me, digging through my bag, reaching through the hole in the lining and triumphantly pulling out ticket after ticket only to find that they were all for other things — Lady Macbeth, Dawn Upshaw, The Magic Flute, a January Butterfly — while the very nice woman at the desk said, anxiously, "I'm trying to find your ticket but you've booked for so many performances of Butterfly, it's just a bit difficult..."

Serves me right for being such a mad person, doesn't it? She did find it, however, and I dashed into the theatre with a minute or two to spare. After such an inauspicious start, I hesitated to look at my cast list in case Cheryl had cancelled yet again. (I've been preparing myself for the possibility for weeks, figuring that even though January's illness would surely be gone by March, it was only 9 days since her final Paris Butterfly, so one might forgive the woman if she wanted a break.)

Cheryl did sing, however. She more than sang. It was that rare phenomenon, one of Those Nights. There was some special little flicker in her entrance — in that pink kimono, in that irresistible smile, in the barely contained excitement of her "Amiche, io son venuta" — which made me suspect that magic was about to happen, and happen it did. This was the Cheryl Barker Butterfly I'd been waiting for, the Cheryl Barker Butterfly to which all others had been leading. Searing and sweet and adorable and devastating — everything I've learned to expect from a Cheryl Barker Butterfly, but intensified.

I could write a lot more. Except that I don't actually think I could.  There will be plenty more words to come: with three more performances, I'm afraid that's inevitable. Right now, though, there's really no point dressing this experience up in my fawning and flourishes. I'd rather just to let it sit in my memory and glow. At least until Friday night when, gods willing, she sings again. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part V

(Yes, I know, troppo Butterfly. But this is it until March, and there are other posts coming, so pazienza!)

I have been feeling a little like Cio-Cio San herself, waiting and waiting and waiting, enduring disappointments and still hoping, con sicura fede and against all reason, that the adored one might come back. Unlike Cio-Cio San, however, mine is no tragedy. Proprio nel punto che ognun diceva: piangi e dispera — just at the moment when everyone said: cry and despair — our prima donna triumphed over illness and did return. They all said I was crazy for booking for so many performances. They were right, but so was I. I could have given this final matinée a miss, but I didn't. I was there, so was she, all was right in the world.

And yet, it wouldn't be the same without somebody cancelling, and so, alas, Catherine Carby obliged. I say alas, but this cancellation too came equipped with silver lining, in the shape of the always gorgeous Jacqueline Dark. I couldn't believe my luck. Anybody sitting in the stalls who let their gaze wander to my loge seat may have witnessed some slightly odd behaviour, as I stifled my squeaks of joy. Cheryl singing! And an unexpected chance to hear Jacqui Dark! Evidently those three cancellations earned me enough diva karma credit for a pretty substantial reward, and this was it.

The last vestiges of Cheryl's indisposition may still have been lurking in the shadows, but not with enough malice to make any difference. I've heard her sing through or immediately after illness several times, and it never seems to be much of a problem — I can't recall ever having heard her sound anything other than absolutely rock solid and secure. Actually, this may just have been my favourite of her three January Butterflies — or would be, if I was at all capable of choosing a favourite. That probably has something to do with my front-of-loge seat as well, always a good place to be. The glow of triumphant return (and my consequent euphoria) helped too. In fact, somebody clapped briefly at a pause in her first scene. A novice, getting ahead of his or herself? Or someone like me, saying welcome back? Probably the former, but I like to think it was the latter.

I will bore myself, as well as anyone still reading, if I attempt yet again to detail her triumph in this role. The point has been made enough times, and not only by me. But it is such a joy to witness artistry at this level, to see a singer in such utter command of every aspect — musical, dramatic, just plain physical — of her role. Watching Antoinette, as a relatively new Butterfly, find her way to a personal triumph, brought home to me once again just how phenomenally demanding Butterfly is for a soprano. A performance like Cheryl's, on the other hand, could almost make you forget that — she seems to thrive on the very aspects of it which seems most exhausting, and the harder it gets, the brighter she shines.

I'm learning to accept that I'll never do justice to Cheryl's Butterfly — or my own response to it — by throwing adjectives at it. Not that I won't stop trying — you don't get off that easily, I'm afraid — but the happy truth of that matter is that it will never work. And it shouldn't. That's what so thrilling and so joyous about this particular singer and her effect on me — as terribly cliché as it is, they're beyond words. All I can do is clutch at straws — gestures, phrases, colours — and say: I really love this.

I really love, for instance, the stillness and self containment of her Cio-Cio San, even at her bubbliest. She captures all the ardency of a besotted teenager without ignoring or masking the serious, adult emotional capacity which will gradually overtake her. I really love her ability to sculpt a natural, engaging and very believable Cio-Cio San while still committing beautifully to the ritualistic aspects of the production, the gestures and the dream/dance sequence, the bowing and so on. I really love the way, as she sings "e starem zitti come topolini ad aspettar", she mimes mouse ears in time with the music. I really love the giggles she stifles during Yamadori's visit.

And I feel like a bad person for dwelling so much on the acting and saying so little about the singing, but it's all tied up together. The commitment and beauty of her Butterfly is apparent in every facet, in her characterisation, in her every move and glance — and in the way she sings it, in the colours of her voice, in its limitlessness, in its startling power, in its rose petal loveliness, in those little turns of phrase, a word here, a note there, the big moments I brace myself for (Ah! M'ha scordata?) and the quiet moments that break my heart (un po' per celia) and all the infinite variety in between. You see what happens when I try to put her voice into words? Sentence structure breaks down, incoherence (more than usual) wins.

Which seems as good a point as any to take myself firmly in hand, and stop. Thank you, Izaghi and Izanami, Sarundasico and Kami, for allowing our Butterfly to return, if only for one afternoon, and for allowing me to be there. Now we can wish her a bon voyage and a magnificent success in Paris, and I can float back down to non-Butterfly earth for a while, until her final four performances in March. Time to remember what else the world has to offer.

Butterfly Diaries, Part IV: Illustrated Edition

1. An offer

A bad thing has happened, but you, yes you, may benefit from my misfortune. Last week I returned to the box office to book for Madama Butterfly on the 7th of March. All seemed well. Then I got home, looked at the thing, and realised what I had in my hand was a ticket for Madama Butterfly on the 7th of February. Alas, alack. Did I misspeak? Did the box office make an error? Either way, I know from past experience that they won't consider exchanging it, and anyway, I've already re-booked for the right date. Which means I have a ticket going spare — the 7th of February is a performance by Antoinette Halloran and Rosario La Spina, and having already seen Antoinette (three times!) in Cheryl's place, I no longer need to go again during her scheduled season. 

The ticket is for C-reserve, seat C12 in the stalls. No surtitle view, but acoustically pretty excellent, and you'll be in exactly the right spot to appreciate the full force of Antoinette's "Un bel di". If you're in Sydney and you'd like it, send me an email and we'll figure something out. As a Saturday night C-reserve ticket, it cost me $106, but I think we can work out a pretty nice deal — I'd just like it to go to a good home. 

2. 09-01-09, 14-01-09 FOURTH & FIFTH PERFORMANCES

Two more Butterflies, two more Cheryl Barker cancellations, two more appearances by Antoinette. What a good thing it's so impossible to be mad at Cheryl Barker. I'm frustrated by the situation, but not by her — painful as her absences are, in the end, I'm pleased she's doing whatever she deems necessary to look after that precious voice. And if there's an element of supercautiousness, on account of her upcoming Parisian début, well, that's fine too. I forgive and forgive, and keep crossing my fingers that she might just make it to the matinée on Saturday, her last scheduled performance this month. And meanwhile, let's just hope she returns in March ready to blaze through her final performances. 

Of Antoinette's three performances so far, I'd say her first was her best. On the 9th her voice was still sounding a bit ragged from the demands she'd placed on it in the previous performance. Wednesday's was somewhere in the middle. Vocally, she's best at the extremes, the high, soaring passages and big, low chest voice. In the middle, a little less secure, but we make allowances, because what a role for anyone to sing. She remains a fine actress, a charming Butterfly, especially in the first act, where she is all youthful excitability. Her own personal take on the role is coming through more clearly with each performance, although so too is a slight tendency to perhaps (for my tastes, anyway) overdo the giggly exuberance just a little. There's a serious and formal side to Cio-Cio San too, after all, but that's something Antoinette has plenty of time and world to grow into. 

Julian Gavin remains our almost lovely Pinkerton, and with Cheryl not around, I actually take the time to watch him a bit more than usual. He's pretty good at finding three dimensions in a character who could just about get away with one, and that bright, secure voice makes him easier still to indulge. I'm more taken with Graeme Macfarlane's Goro all the time, too. Whereas I'm starting to wish Barry Ryan's Sharpless had just a bit more presence and a more benevolent air — maybe it's just me, but I like to feel that he's really on Butterfly's side, as far as possible, rather than that he's just taking care of business as painlessly as he can manage. Wednesday's performance was an especially moving one for Suzuki, Catherine seemed quite genuinely distraught by the end. 

That said, it was also the only one I've remained dry-eyed throughout, but that's more to do with my frustration at diva cancellation than the performance per se — and it received a pretty substantial standing ovation, much to my surprise, so what do I know? 

So now there's only Saturday's matinée left, and then I'm Butterfly-free until March. I'm doing my level best to expect Antoinette to sing. If Cheryl happens to appear, well, what a bonus that would be. All this uncertainty wreaks havoc on my poor nerves, though. It's terribly traumatic, not knowing until the very last moment. 

3. Santé

 

For our prima donna, on the eve of her Parisian début. Get well soon, for les grenouilles if not for us. But that matinée would be nice. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part III

06-01-09 THIRD PERFORMANCE

It was all well and good preparing myself for Cheryl to cancel on night two, but having been wrong once, it didn't occur to me that it might be good psychological insurance to repeat the process until I was about fifteen metres from the theatre. Thus, not surprisingly, since it's the way these things always work, this was the night I was right. I scanned my cast list as a matter of course, and my initial, idiotic reaction was "why haven't they listed Cio-Cio San?". Then my brain caught up with me and pointed out that yes, they had listed her, she just wasn't being sung by Cheryl.

Sigh. I was a little disappointed, but, believe it or not, not heartbroken. For various reasons. One, because it was still in the back of my mind that she might cancel, so I was readyish; two, because there are still plenty of chances to hear her in the role; and three, because I'd actually ever so slightly hoped that this would happen. Yes, really. You see, Antoinette Halloran is scheduled to take over at the end of this month and for all of February. I like Antoinette Halloran a lot. And so, despite being booked to see Cheryl's Butterfly more times than any sensible person should see anyone's Butterfly in close succession, I still wasn't going to miss the chance to hear Antoinette take it on. So I was prepared to pay for yet another ticket and see yet another performance in order to do so; but it had occured to me that it would save money and help prevent Butterfly fatigue if Antoinette just happened to sing one of Cheryl's performances. And that's exactly what happened.

So I shrugged off my disappointment at the absence of Cheryl and turned my thoughts to the imminent joy of Antoinette. I've had a curious relationship with Antoinette's voice of late, but there is something about her I can't resist, even if I have occasional doubts about her. I had reasonably high hopes for her Butterfly: it's a role she's sung before, she'd already taken over at least two performances in the Melbourne season last month, and it's only a couple of weeks until her scheduled debut here. 

Usually, if I'm faced with a last minute substitution for somebody I really wanted to hear, it takes me an act or so to reconcile myself to the change. This time, though, my genuine happiness at the opportunity to hear Antoinette ahead of schedule already put her at a distinct advantage. And her performance, I'm very happy to say, continued the good work. She was absolutely beautiful. I wondered if I could love another Cio-Cio San so soon after Cheryl. With her first notes and first glance, Antoinette showed me I could. 

Perhaps she doesn't have the role under her skin quite yet, but nobody would expect her to. Nevertheless she gave an engaging, moving portrayal, as vivid in her own way as Cheryl's or anybody's. In her facial expressions, and in the first act especially, Antoinette did seem, consciously or unconsciously, to be channelling her immediate predecessor, but not in a way that came across as deliberate imitation. The character became more her own as the evening progressed, and grew into quite a different creature, a younger, more openly ardent Cio-Cio San. Vocally, the first act was her best, with the long and gruelling second act a bit less secure, although not without its thrills and moments of loveliness. No doubt one day, when she too has sung Butterfly a million times (and I daresay she shall) she'll master the art of pacing herself, but the sheer exuberance of her performance did a lot to compensate for occasionally uneven singing. 

Nerd that I am, I couldn't help playing spot the difference, noting which bits of stage business were changed and which were common to both. I saw that Antoinette knelt to scatter her flowers, rather than gliding about the stage. Also that, where Cheryl actually picks the child up and swings him about while singing, Antoinette left him on the ground and held his hand — and fair enough too, I couldn't believe it when Cheryl kept singing under the weight of a six year old in motion. Other tiny details too, but so trivial as to make the preceding points seem vastly significant. 

Julian Gavin gave what sounded to me his best performance yet. Or maybe it was just that I was in my most acoustically advantageous seat so far, right at the front of the loge. Either way, this was the night which really made me sit up and listen to his voice and think how fortunate we are to have such an attractive and secure voice in this role. My affection for Catherine Carby continues to grow. Roll on, I Capuleti — I sense a Sternstunde coming on. 

One final point, while I'm thinking of it — I very much like the way Shao-Chia Lü has been beginning each performance. Much like Simon Hewett in Otello (and he was following Simone Young's lead in doing so), there is no initial applause for the conductor's entrance. He sneaks into the pit ahead of time, and only steps up to the podium as the lights are going down, just in time to start the performance with a bang. It worked a treat in Otello, with its opening storm; Butterfly hasn't just a turbulent beginning, but the effect is equally striking. A few tourists at the second performance wrecked it by applauding once the orchestra had started, but they were silenced reasonably quickly, and otherwise it's worked well. 

And thus, with the above, I bring myself at long last up to date. Tomorrow night is my fourth. I'm afraid I can neither promise nor threaten to keep on posting about every singly performance. I mightn't have the stamina, and you certainly could be forgiven for giving up on me until I find another topic. We shall see. In the meantime, there's a Cav/Pag opening on Saturday, so the advent of a non Butterfly post is closer than you think. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part II

03-01-09 SECOND PERFORMANCE

This performance was not a part of my initial massive ticket purchase (for reasons which I'm sure seemed utterly logical at the time, but which escape me now) so I was punished with a seat in Row U of the stalls. In such a little theatre, Row U is still not exactly the middle of nowhere, however it is behind the overhang of the gallery, which means the acoustic is especially poor, even by Opera Theatre standards. Orchestra? What orchestra? I exaggerate, but not by as much as I like. I was definitely confirmed in my aversion to such faraway seats. Front row or loge for me, thank you very much.

After opening night, I had managed to convince myself (almost) that Cheryl would cancel. No definite reason for this, really, just a surreptitious cough or two and a vague sense that I'd been hearing, say, 97.6% instead of 100. In fact I'd done such a good job of convincing myself that I arrived at the theatre pretty much expecting to hear Antoinette Halloran instead. Which would have been fine — I'm booked for enough performances to compensate the loss of Cheryl in one of them — but, as it happened, she didn't cancel, and so just having her there was a bonus of sorts. 

I'm not used to seeing or hearing Cheryl from so far away, but in the big scheme of things, it hardly matters — far or near, she's still the same beautiful singer, and her commitment, charisma and oh that voice carry far, far beyond the first few rows. In fact it's probably healthy for me to be reminded of that once in while, and to have my focus broadened a bit. I think she was even lovelier than on opening night. I think. I don't know, because I can only just hold on to my last smidgen of impartiality long enough to get my grown up reviews written, and then all that goes to hell and my brain works along the lines of: Is Cheryl, Is Good. If pushed, I could probably suggest that the voice was softer and shinier than it had been in previous performance, that it flowed a little more freely, but really, we're talking about degrees of gorgeousness, and what's the point? She's Cheryl. She's Cheryl. (I'm sorry. I know I'm terribly over the top. But if I can't vent it here, then where?)

Meanwhile everybody else was much as they had been on opening night, no major changes, positive or negative. And why would you change anything? Which is not to say that this is the Most Perfect Butterfly In The World...Ever! but it's actually not far from it, in a restrained sort of way. I can't think what could be improved. Excellent principal cast, fine support from the bit players, stunning voices in the two roles which absolutely require them and, as a bonus, from Suzuki as well. As for the production, for once I really hope that Opera Australia does maintain its habit of keeping productions in the repertory for decades, because I can't see any pressing need to replace this one. I wouldn't mind seeing a version of John Bell's production for Oz Opera expanded to take advantage of the Opera Theatre's facilities, but even so, I don't want us losing Moffatt Oxenbould's production any time so. The Copley Lucia and the Cox Ballo can go (please) but not this. 

The rest you know already. They sang, they bowed, she bowed and the audience rose as one. For reasons likely more touristic than musical, but whatever the motive, the end result is the same and I'm happy. True, the performance in and of itself wasn't quite at the earth shattering, mind bending, scream eliciting standard which your usual standing ovation might require. I adored it but had no expectation of standing for it. However, it is a truth universally acknowledged that a gorgeous soprano in possession of phenomenal talent must deserve a standing ovation, just because she does. 

Butterfly Diaries, Part I

30-12-08 OPENING NIGHT

Apparently OA's season opens earlier every year, so that the 2009 season managed to open two days before the end of 2008. I suspect this was at least partly to allow Cheryl Barker a reasonable number of performances before she jets off to Paris to be their (B-cast!) Butterfly. (And may we take a moment to applaud a soprano who finishes up in Sydney on January 17th and has her first Parisian performance on the 31st, meaning less than two weeks rehearsal time for a Robert Wilson production. Yes, I know, she's sung in it before, but still. Anyway, sorry, too much parenthesis too soon. Back to business.)

Cheryl is our Butterfly, and what more is there to say? She owns this role. The (sadly now apparently abandoned) International Cheryl Barker Association website lists fifteen seasons of this opera in her performance history, in a variety of productions in both hemispheres. Opera Australia's drop dead gorgeous production was created for her and she's captured on the DVD of same, as well as a DVD of the aforementioned Robert Wilson Blue Butterfly. Of course, sheer repetition does not in itself equal magnificent role ownership, but you only have to see or hear her in the role for five or ten minutes to realise she's a very special Cio-Cio San. And look, I know, I'm me, and I think she's a very special everything. But you could be the most objective observer in the world and I suspect you'd still have to concede that she's an important and wonderfully successful intepreter of this role. 

What I like about Cheryl's Butterfly is, oh, everything, but in particular I like that, while it is something like her sixteenth Butterfly, I can't detect any signs of fatigue. Her wealth of experience shows itself in how extraordinary well she clearly understands the character, and the revelatory world of details which that knowledge brings out, sometimes I think almost unconsciously. But she doesn't coast through the role, it isn't singing by numbers, she isn't on autopilot — and lord knows, she could be forgiven if every now and then she was, just a little. For heaven's sake, she's Cheryl Barker, singing Butterfly. She could sing it in her sleep and even if she did, she'd still probably be fascinating — it's just the way she is.

And I love the details. There's a lot of Butterfly ahead of me still, so I'll try to pace myself and save a few points for later. The one I want to mention immediately, however, is the magic she works with the Warhorse of Warhorses, her "Un bel di". It's the eternal problem with big hit arias like this ("O mio babbino caro" suffers the same fate) that it's hard sometimes — for an audience and for singers too, I think — to appreciate them only in terms of their immediate context, to remain in engaged opera mode rather than switching into concert mode. "Un bel di" is so familiar that it would be easy enough to sit back and enjoy it as a favourite aria, rather than paying as much attention to what it's saying as you have to the preceding dialogue. Cheryl fixes that. Her "Un bel di" is quite extraordinarily conversational. There's very little standing at the front of the stage, gazing into the distance; instead, she remembers at every point that it's to Suzuki that she's saying all of this. Yes, it's an affirmation to herself as well, but it's not a soliloquy. Cheryl sings it in a fantastically attentive, responsive manner, the way you might expect her to sing it if the text were set as flat recitative instead. In doing so she refocuses your attention (or a good deal of it, anyway) on what's actually going on, both in the aria and in Butterfly's head. It's a BIG aria no matter which way you look at it, and even the most standandsingish performance is still going to pack a fair punch, but for my tastes, it's Cheryl's approach I find the most moving. 

Moving on, only because I think I must rather than because I feel much inclined to, a fair share of the praise ought to be heaped on Catherine Carby as well, our lovely Suzuki. Excuse me, but shouldn't Catherine be receiving far glitterier star treatment from this company? Oh, yes, she's had a few plum roles recently, I won't deny that, but all the same I can't shake the feeling that her brilliance still isn't being taken advantage of as fully as it might. The same is true of her Suzuki as was true of her Kristina — she sings her first lines, and if it weren't for the presence of a Cheryl Barker waiting in the wings, I would be happy to hear her as the star of the show. At least we had that chance in Don Giovanni, but what I'm ever more eagerly anticipating is her Romeo in I Capuleti. Just quietly, I think she might just blow Emma right out of the water. Not that it's a competition. Her Suzuki, meanwhile, is fabulous — she is the latest in a long line of mezzos (Christa Ludwig, for one) to make you really, really wish that Puccini had given her an aria. Anyway, she makes the most of what she's given and is a total and utter delight, even if Puccini (and this role) is not perhaps her most obvious repertoire. But she's Catherine, and I'm keen to hear her in absolutely anything she chooses to sing. (Yes, you see, I really do notice the other singers, even when Cheryl's about.)

Was I supposed to mention Pinkerton before Suzuki? Never mind. Nobody likes him, so nobody will mind. Except I have to confess, I don't really hate Pinkerton, at least not as a general rule. Like Don Ottavio, he's one of those characters constantly mentioned in reviews as having been made "surprisingly sympathetic" by a particular singer — to the point that I start to wonder if it might be time to accept that the character himself is actually more sympathetic than we've given him credit for. Although, in Pinkerton's case, not much more. At best, he's still an inconsiderate fool. At worst, he's total scum. Julian Gavin is closer to the former. What scumminess he possessed was ameliorated, for me at any rate, by the palpable sincerity with which Gavin imbued Pinkerton's descriptions of Butterfly — he really is completely head over heels for her, even if it's not exactly love. For a day or two at least, he's as much in her power as she is in his, and that makes at least a little bit of a difference. Of course, it's always easier to feel sympathy for a beautifully sung Pinkerton. He seemed a bit cautious on opening night, and there were a couple of unsettling swoops and scoops, but ultimately the care he took was a positive thing — we heard a Pinkerton full of light and shade, with graceful turns of phrase and dynamic variations, not just a relentless Italian bellower. It's not exactly the three-dimensional portrayal of Cheryl's Butterfly, but then, it's not as if the role offers much possibility of that. 

Is my post longer than the libretto yet? I'm afraid to check, in case it is, so will plunge ahead and, in my usual callous way, dash off all the male cameos with three or four words apiece, or something like that. You can't resist Graeme Macfarlane. He's the ultimate Goro. He's on the DVD too, which leads me to suspect he may have a lifetime monopoly on the part, like John Bolton Wood as Benoit/Alcindoro in La bohème. Anyway, Goro is just as Cio-Cio San says, "un uom cattivo", but as Graeme flits and scurries about the stage, making mischief at every turn, you can't help but like him. My other favourite is Jud Arthur's bright orange Bonze, fabulously demonic in voice and appearance — and he handles that brandishing stick of his like a pro. Barry Ryan is a good, solid Sharpless. Not as sympathetic as Richard Stilwell on the DVD, who manages to make the Consul not only likeable but surprisingly complex, but he does his job well. Luke Gabbedy struts for all he's worth as Yamadori, and strikes the right balance between handsome and preposterous — you can understand why everyone thinks Butterfly should be tempted, but also why she's obviously not — but his voice doesn't always have quite as much presence as he does. Andrew Moran is still a voice whose progress I'm keen to follow, and his brief turn as the Imperial Commissioner does nothing to change that, but it's hardly a role about which much can be said, good or bad. 

We're very fortunate in our conductor, Shao-Chia Lü, who leads a fabulously idiomatic sort of performance, all bright strings and surging emotion. Not crash bang loud, but not impossibly tiny and subtle either — just right, said Goldilocks. He helps lift the sound of the orchestra as far out of that abysmal pit as it's likely to get, for which I'm thankful. 

My final words for tonight — congratulations on reading this far, both of you — must be for the production. I am madly in love with this production. I have been since I watched that DVD and declared it the Most Beautiful Thing In The World Ever. Drastic reaction, yes, and clearly hyperbole, but you get my drift. It's not what you'd call revolutionary. But it's also a fair distance from conventional. Aesthetically it's quite possibly the most gorgeous production the company has in its repertory — among the tourist audience especially, there are audible gasps when the stars come out, or petals begin to fall, and I still get goosebumps every time Butterfly sheds one her deep pink (unmarried) kimono to reveal the blue (married) beneath. I could rhapsodize over the production almost as much as I could over Cheryl herself — and you know by now that that's a lot — so once again, I'll shut myself up, and add only that I think Moffatt Oxenbould, who created this work of art, is a wonderful and very clever man. Puccini ain't bad either.