Prima la musica, poi le parole

Mutual admiration society

Or something like that. This is what appears on page 13 of this month's Limelight magazine. [Click the image if the text is too small.]

 Um, yes. Number 2 pretty much made my day. Also my year. Not entirely sure what's left to achieve in the remaining decades of my life. (Although the rest of the season of Peter Grimes is a start.)

And, speaking of Cheryl, and Britten, and must-see shows, here's a trailer for ENO's revival of their massively acclaimed Turn of the Screw, which, as I type, is just a few hours away from opening night.

I'd wish I were there, except that I'm here, and we have Peter Grimes. 

Cheryl Barker: Great Operatic Arias (Chandos Opera in English)

Enough. If I don't write about Cheryl Barker's new CD soon, I think somebody (he knows who he is) from Select Audio-Visual might beat me up. So here goes.

I find writing about this disc strange, mostly because I don't really think of Cheryl as a recording artist. It's her live performances which are the core of my experience of her, and I find that I can't approach this disc as I would the latest by, say, Joyce DiDonato or Cecilia Bartoli, singers who exist in my world primarily through their solo albums. And yet I have a feeling that it's to people like me (well, you know what I mean) that this album will exercise its strongest appeal — people who come equipped with a sense of the full Cheryl experience. Because she isn't Montserrat Caballé, and nor is she Carolyn Sampson. Her irresistibility lies not in world-beating pianissimi, or laser trills, or a single, mouthwatering note, but in the emotional honesty of every single aria, and how tangible that connection is to a newcomer with only her voice to go by, I really don't know. I mean, I don't even know what it was like when I was that newcomer; she just got to me, somehow, and next thing I woke up with six tickets to Arabella. 

However, that's where I think the language of this disc comes in handy. Opera In English can feel like a necessary evil, but in this instance I think it's a positive virtue. What the studio takes away from Cheryl's performances, the immediacy of the vernacular goes quite some way to restoring. Of course, every singer in this series has the same theoretical advantage, but where Cheryl stands out is in her commitment to these new texts. Her approach to them is as scrupulous, as convincing and as sensitively coloured as if they were the only texts and as if they were all Great Poetry. She brings such truthfulness to these arias that you could be fooled into thinking that those notes were always meant for these words: she sounds like she believes it, so why wouldn't we?  

I think the selection of arias on this disc is very very interesting. Rather than two dozen lollipops, we have just twelve tracks; that number includes two tracks each from The Queen of Spades, Adriana Lecouvreur, Arabella and I Pagliacci, along with selections from La Wally, Mefistofele, The End of the Affair and The Violins of Saint-Jacques. It seems to me above all a very serious program. These Chandos discs usually contain a comic aria or two (and often a token bit of musical theatre) but Arabella is as lighthearted as Cheryl gets — the rest is either pain and suffering or dignified declamation. 

And the album is all the better for it: it feels like a considered, coherent concert rather than a hit parade. Adriana's "humble servant" carry-on is a slightly unusual beginning, but it's quite a lovely (and novel) thing to have on record from her. Adriana's other aria, "Poveri fiori" is probably the better done, however. The publicity blurb suggests that some of the arias on this disc are included by way of homage to Joan Hammond (with whom Cheryl studied) and in that sense they're charming inclusions. Her rendition of Wally's big aria I imagine falls into that same category; it's also admirable for her ability to be understood almost throughout — I've heard Yvonne sing the same translation a thousand times and never quite picked up all the words till now. The best of the Italian selections, though, are the Leoncavallo and the Boito. Nedda's "Stridono lassu" and her fervent, sensuous duet with Silvio are a tantalising taste of a role she's previously sung in its entirety. Marguerita's "L'altra notte" is still more extraordinary, her voice etched deep with grief as she sings "What hope is left me?" and makes a few searing excursions into that lower register of hers. 

The non-Italian half of the album is even better. Lisa's two arias from The Queen of Spades exemplify everything I said above about the way she treats her English translations: they're so convincing in this language that they sound as if they were always written that way, even though I've heard them so many times in Russian. They also scream one thought to me, over and over again: Opera Australia must stage this opera for her. It's wonderful, of course, to have some of her Arabella committed to disc, and interesting to hear the differences a year and a language have made to her approach. Gillian Keith is a very sweet Sophie, although not to my ears as impressive as Rebecca Evans, who sings the same duet (in the same translation) on Yvonne's second one of these. It's mildly disconcerting to have Cheryl's Arabella swear devotion to a Mandryka who isn't Peter, but William Dazeley  is excellent nonetheless, and in any case, it's in the Pagliacci scene that he really struts his stuff. 

But the real revelations are the two untranslated arias. The sultry, swaying "How can I explain to you" from Malcolm Williamson's The Violins of Saint-Jacques is something to treasure. I'd imagine it's the only readily available recording of this rarity, but it has more than rarity to recommend it: it's also a very beautiful aria, maybe a little high for her, but when sung with such warmth, oh, what does it matter? (A certain eminent customer told us recently he had a hand in this aria's inclusion. To which I say a heartfelt thank you, M.) And then there's Sarah's aria from Jake Heggie's The End of the Affair, which just tears me apart. The shrill, panicked first section gives way to an astonishingly lyrical and moving prayer, in a way almost reminiscent Desdemona's death scene, and the utter desperation in every syllable is hard to bear. I defy anyone to listen to Cheryl sing "What kind of sacrifice do you need?" and not feel a little dagger to the heart. 

There you have it. I'm sorry this is so long but I doubt that surprises you. And I did promise somebody (again, he knows who he is) that this would be the longest CD review in the history of the world ever, so at least I've done my job in that respect. Oh, and in case you're wondering, and despite the links to Presto Classical, yes, I do think that if you're inclined to own this CD, you ought to buy it from Fish Fine Music. Preferably on King St — that, after all, is where the posters are. 

Donna non vidi mai

I think I expected my season of Manon Lescaut to be a bit of a guilty pleasure: a chance to sit in my front row seat and marvel at the magnificence of my favourite soprano, without necessarily getting too caught up in the psychology of the character she was portraying. After all, I didn't like the Manon of the novel at all, and Puccini's opera, while rather more engaging, is still not what you'd call a psychologically penetrating work of genius. Naturally I expected Cheryl's Manon to delight and devastate me, but I just assumed she'd do so because she was Cheryl, not because she was Manon.

Silly me. I should have known I'd never get off so lightly. Cheryl Barker doesn't do shallow. Where my own imagination had failed, Cheryl's stepped in and emerged triumphant, bringing out an intense and complex humanity in Manon which I didn't know existed. In fact, maybe it doesn't. Puccini's Manon is better fleshed out than Prévost's, but Cheryl's seemed to go further still, transcending the limits of her material to carve out a character of extraordinary depth and warmth. A Manon who finally made me understand what des Grieux was on about. 

After just two performances, I praised Cheryl for her ability to bridge the gaps in this opera's lurching structure, bringing a recognisable consistency to the three drastically different phases of Manon's story despite the opera's removal of everything crucial that happens in between. As true as this was at that early stage, it became truer still as the season progressed. Each performance made more sense of the character, and since I now knew (roughly) what the Manon of Act Two would be like, I could see her simmering beneath the surface from the start. And I could see her at the end, too: even at her lowest, Manon's vivacity and her (unwise) attachment to beauty shone through. 

The more I think about Manon, the more I'm struck by how essentially ordinary she is. Yes, she's idealised — fetishized, even — by the men around her, and yes, her circumstances are extraordinary — that's why there's an opera about her — but Manon herself, as a human being, is not extraordinary. Girls like Manon are probably all over the place: only their situations and their decisions which vary. And because she's not operating on the plane of Extraordinary Heroines, she's not bound to their rules. She's free to be unheroic, and this doesn't make her a villain, it just makes her human: passionate, inconsistent and irresistible. 

There are no easy answers when it comes to Manon, and maybe the key to Cheryl's success in the role is that she didn't attempt to provide any. She just opened herself up to the character's tangled humanity, unflinchingly exploring the vast and contradictory possibilities of character and music without offering any moral absolutes. I loved Manon as much for her vanity as for her sincerity, for her flirtatiousness as much as her loyalty, for the petulant humour of Act Two as much as the horror of Act Four. I loved her for just being Manon.

And I loved her for her voice. I do worry sometimes that I seem to write more about Cheryl as an actress than as a singer, but the reality is that I'm always writing about her as both. The two strands are inseparable: just ask Countess Madeleine. Her singing is as electrifying and as beautifully characterised as her physical portrayal, and everything you see in her eyes or the way she moves is writ large in her voice as well. I never cease to regard as extraordinary her ability to combine immense visceral power with exquisite control and subtlety, her singular talent for challenging herself and winning, or her gift for seemingly giving everything while never exceeding her limits, whatever they might be. She hurtles herself into the vocal climaxes of a role without damaging its intricacies, and she can be just as stunning in a tiny moment as in a huge one. 

There's so much in her singing of this particular role which I could single out for praise. Her initially tentative, then increasingly assured utterances in Act One, moving gently from a simple, sad "la mia stella tramonta" to that final "Andiam!", at which point she fled so enthusiastically with des Grieux that on one occasion she actually let go of his hand and ran ahead of him. The sparkle, humour and — wait, was that a trill? — of Act Two's rococo pastiche, and that amazing high C, held not as an ornament but as an expression of repressed rage — one night she held it even longer than usual, and I nearly burst in sympathy. And then suddenly, just as the frills and fun of the dancing lesson had settled into silence, and Manon is alone, des Grieux would arrive and she'd launch into a "Tu, tu, amore?" which was always the turning point of the night. Silvery superficiality gave way to much earthier singing, as Puccini remembered himself, allowing his heroine to stop playing around and start expressing her innermost suffering at high volume and in music of astonishing sensuality. 

Then there was that final act. Seven times I went through this with her, and each time she seemed to give more of herself, to take more risks and just give her voice and body up to the horror of the moment. In the fourth performance she changed the staging of "Sola, perduta" completely and kept it that way for the rest of the season: rather than make her way upstage and lean against an illogical (it's the desert!) wall, she remained downstage and essentially proceeded to fall apart in front of us, intensifying the aria's already tight focus to an almost brutal degree, and maintaining that focus from the conclusion of the aria until her final breath. 

I've seen Cheryl die many times and in many ways, and in operas far greater than this one, but this final act was one of the greatest vocal and dramatic performances I've ever seen her give, not to mention one of the most completely and wonderfully draining. Every fibre of her being spoke of unimaginable pain and exhaustion: every note, every movement, every word simply ached. It was an extraordinary thing to witness. I still can't get it out of my head. 

I expected Manon to leave an impression. I just didn't realise it would be so strong. I love all of Cheryl's heroines, but her Manon is the only one who has changed my mind, who has taken my indifference and turned it into affection, fascination and sympathy. I loved all the others even before they'd been Cheryl-ised, but my love for Manon is entirely her doing and a testament to the depth, intelligence and luminous humanity she brings to this and every other character. A month or so ago, I thought I could take or leave Manon. Now she's left me, and I miss her. 

Placeholder

There is plenty left to be said about Manon Lescaut but now, when my brain is turning to 3am mush, is not the time for it. So for now, let me show rather than tell. Here (courtesy of DarioFrancoCorelli) is about the best reminder YouTube can muster of how fantastically well Cheryl Barker sings Puccini, of how beautifully she dies, and of how far she has come in the last sixteen years. 

 

The Professor and Mary Ann

My bloggable backlog is growing, and as tomorrow is yet another opening night, I've decided this is the only way to clear it. Everything at once. Pick and choose as you will.
 

1. SECOND AIDA 

In a fit of enthusiasm after the fabulous second half of Aida's opening performance, I went and booked myself for a second helping. I must confess, however, that when I found myself back in the theatre and waiting for the curtain to go up on those cardboard sets and travelators, I began to wonder exactly why I'd come back. And then Tamara Wilson reminded me. I'm still not nearly as convinced by the production as many seem to be, but it has its moments — and even if it didn't, there would still be Tamara, and she would still be wonderful. If we can't just stop her at the airport and make her stay in the country, then I hope we can at least manage to tempt her back for something else. In the meantime, let me direct your attention to this completely delightful interview. 

The cast as a whole were much as expected, which is a good thing, and the show seemed to hit its stride earlier than on opening night. There are some incredibly strong performers in this show, not least Michael Lewis, whose Amonasro is just a masterclass in Verdi singing, and Dongwon Shin, who this time around was in full splendour right from the start. And while Milijana Nikolic's Amneris still takes a bit of time to get going, when she does, she is outstanding. 

I think what troubles me about this production, more than conveyor belts and problematic scenery, is the extent to which Graeme Murphy seems to have left his singers to their own devices. They know when, where and how to move; they interact with all the complex lighting design and all the other moving parts of the production, but it feels as if that's where Murphy left them, and the rest they've figured out for themselves, each in their own way and with varying degrees of success. So while they all acquit themselves very well indeed, it's sometimes as if each character is in his or her own version of Aida, and I'd much rather see them in something approaching a shared, coherent vision. And, while it's both unsurprising and a cliché to say it in talking about an opera directed by a choreographer, what the singers lack is exactly what the dancers have. The ballets aren't just beautiful, they're also the most dramatically interesting part of the show. Coincidence?

 2. EISTEDDFOD

I always mean to see more of the Eisteddfod than just the McDonald's Aria Final, and then it doesn't happen. But this time I finally organised myself enough to make it to North Sydney on Saturday for the first round of heats. There are few things I like better than a singing competition, and this one did not disappoint, despite the fact that I found myself in the tiniest audience I've ever experienced: apparently even parents and friends tend not to come and watch the heats. At the height of it there were maybe 10 or 12 of us watching. No matter, it was still hugely enjoyable, especially when I discovered several of my favourite singing compatriots on the list of finalists. I heard the gorgeous Sarah-Ann Walker in the afternoon, and if all goes to plan I hope to go back on Friday and hear not only Brigitte Heuser but my favourite Dunedin singer of all, the incomparable Claire Barton. Can't wait. There were plenty of familiar Australian faces among Saturday's singers too, chorus members and Con students and so on, and the standard was generally very impressive: only the few who were obviously not at the right level yet didn't make it through to the quarter finals. 

And while I'm sure it's terribly bad form to name names at this early stage, and despite having determined not to do so, I can't help but mention the one singer who completely blew me away. I recognised her immediately from the OA chorus, and now that I've heard her and seen her as a soloist, I want her out of that chorus and in the spotlight. She is Leah Thomas and she is stunningly good. Not that she needs me to promote her, of course, having already been featured quite, um, prominently by Opera Chic. But she's going straight to the top of my Watchlist. 

 3. EMMA MATTHEWS IN MONTE CARLO

If you'ver read this blog for a while, you're probably aware of my ambivalence towards Emma Matthews. She's absolutely an audience favourite and one of the company's star players, but my appreciation of her has always been more a theoretical thing than a personal response. I've just never quite got it, whatever it is, and while some of her performances have impressed me more than others, none of them has ever made my jaw drop or my heart split. All of this is my problem, not Emma's. She's a lovely singer and if I can't adore her then that's my loss.

I'm saying all of this so that you have a sense of the state in which I approached Emma's brand new solo disc, a selection of bel canto showpieces with the Orchestre Philharmonique de Monte Carlo and of the delighted surprise I take in reporting that it is drop dead gorgeous. It really is. In a mix of lollipops and seriously meaty repertoire, she is graceful, charming and note perfect. She sounds like the Emma I've always thought I should be hearing in the theatre, which perhaps has something to do with the fact that she's not trying to push her voice to the back of an opera house with the world's worst acoustic. Her coloratura not just immaculate but full of personality: she has huge fun with Glitter and Be Gay, drifts beautifully through Ophélie's mad scene, and her "Amour, ranime mon courage" is stunning. Better still is her superlative "Regnava nel silenzio...Quando rapito in estasi": it's sensitively characterised, imaginatively ornamented, and comes with the added bonus of Catherine Carby as Alisa — when's her solo disc, ABC? And she even includes a stunning excerpt from Richard Mills's recent The Love of the Nightingale.

I know I've given Emma a hard time. And I can't take back or alter my response to her live performances, or even guarantee that I'll go madder for her them in future. What I can say is that on this recording, she is magnificent. Her singing is elegant, exciting and beautifully refined. It's showy repertoire, but Emma is all class. Whether I will ever join the legions of Emma's devotees remains to be seen, but this CD has brought me much closer than I thought possible to finally understanding properly what all the fuss is about it. 

 4. FIFTH AND SIXTH MANON LESCAUT

(Yes, OK, technically sixth and seventh.) You'd think this would be the longest sub-post of all, but it isn't going to be. I could say a hundred things about Cheryl's Manon but in the end all those roads lead to the same conclusion: she's Cheryl's Manon. She's extraordinary. She's beautiful and she's brutal and she breaks my heart and she changes my mind. Every time. And every time in different ways. I finished the novel not sure I could ever love Manon. Cheryl has sorted that out for me. The heroine I called unsympathetic a few weeks ago has now, for all her massive flaws, won my heart and, yes, my sympathy. She's still a problematic girl, it's still a problematic opera, but when you live through Cheryl's staggering "Sola, perduta" — or rather, through any of them, they've all been different — the only problem is making it in one piece. 

Ahimè

I have a feeling I promised (to you and/or myself) that I would try to act like a vaguely sane person and not blog about every single one of my eight Manon Lescauts. Well, it's not as if you believed me anyway, is it?  Tonight was the fifth. I'm not going to dwell too exhaustingly long on it, but I do want to write a little about what happened in Act Four, as much as my own aide-mémoire as anything else. 

It began much as usual. Every time is different with you-know-who but the differences are generally on the small and subtle side. So for the first half, it was as different and as freshly detailed as usual and no more, except with perhaps a touch more angst. And that was something I thought I'd sensed in this Manon right from Act One, so it wasn't wholly unexpected either. 

The big change came in "Sola, perduta, abbandonata". Suddenly, Cheryl let loose, with a rendition which was much much rawer and more full of absolute pain than any of the previous three. A bit rougher around the edges than usual, certainly, but in the very best, most meaningful and moving way. It was an even more physical performance than the others have been. Just crushingly intense in every way. And all the usual blocking for the aria fell away; the progress upstage to lean against the back wall on the final "Non voglio morire! Amore...aita!" was gone, she stayed downstage doing her own gutwrenching thing, body bent and voice brimming with excruciating desperation.

That emotion permeated what little remained of the final act. I had already spent the whole evening feeling sadder and more sympathetic for Manon than ever before and tonight, for the first time, her death brought me to tears. And almost to my feet. But that didn't seem quite appropriate (and it's hard to direct a solo standing ovation at one person, though I have tried it) so I settled for leaning as far forward as I could in my front loge seat while madly clattering my best and noisiest (and only) heels, which I had worn for just that purpose. Evidently des Grieux is not the only one moved to irrational outbursts by Manon Lescaut. 

Fourth time a charm

Didn't I say it would be her best yet? I was torn between determination that she would sing and fear that such thoughts would jinx us both. Apparently the power of positive thinking won out. She did sing and it was her best yet. At every level. You might think I'm so far gone I can't tell wonderful from wonderful. Sometimes I think so too. But when she gives a performance like tonight's, I know I can. I can see it, I can hear it, and I can feel it. Her Manon tonight was more delightful, more moving and more magnificently complex than ever, acted to perfection and sung with a voice which eats winter ailments (and me) for breakfast. 

See also: Wanderer on the same performance.

Obligatory French Cough Medicine Poster

This is getting to be a bit of a habit. Adrian Collette appeared on stage before Manon Lescaut to announce that Cheryl Barker was suffering from a "winter ailment" and wouldn't be singing, since she knew she couldn't do so "to her satisfaction or to yours". Oh, Cheryl, you could speak the thing and I'd be happy, but that's fine, you know best. I can't be mad at her for cancelling, as much as I miss her, because ultimately, she's the guardian of one of the things I treasure most in the world — her own voice — and I'm happy for her to do whatever she deems necessary to look after it. 

It helped that I was forewarned. I'd been quietly preparing myself for a cancellation since Wednesday's performance. Don't ask me why. She was in perfectly resplendent voice but some sixth sense had me thinking I wouldn't be surprised if she cancelled the next one. And by this afternoon I had concrete evidence in favour of my suspicions. So I was ready, and it hurt much less.

Our cover was Teresa La Rocca, a perfectly lovely singer but one whose CV is full of Inas and Ettas, so a curious choice for Manon. I mean, Cheryl told Margaret Throsby the other day that she was offered the role five years ago, and even then, with Cio-Cio San, Tosca and Katya Kabanova under her belt and Salome in her sights, she felt she wasn't yet ready. That's how big it is. But all things considered, Teresa coped admirably and I was quite impressed by her. I'd be very keen now to see her in a different sort of role, and I think she'd be excellent as Massenet's Manon. 

And yet I did something I've never done before. I left halfway through. Don't take this as a slight on Teresa's performance, it isn't that. But I have to be honest. The only reason I booked the whole season of this opera is Cheryl. It has no other claim on me. It's not like Butterfly, where, yes, Cheryl was the reason I booked ten times but where the opera and the character meant so much to me that even when she cancelled, I'd have stayed to the end no matter who the substitute was: you just can't walk out on Cio-Cio San. Not so Manon. I am not des Grieux. I can resist her. Cheryl is my downfall, not Manon Lescaut, and since I'm starting to sense that this opera — and this production — will suffer a little with every subsequent viewing, I thought it best to save myself as far as possible for her return. 

Leaving also meant I could gift my front row seat to one of the most dedicated operagoers I know, who was suffering not only from Cheryl's absence but also from a loge seat. So she got my seat and I got an early(ish) night. To Teresa I say: well done. And to Cheryl: get well soon. Absence makes the heart grow fonder but I'm still rather partial to presence.  

Manon Lescaut

We might roll our eyes at the liberties that composers and librettists have taken in adapting literary subjects for the lyric stage but sometimes they're entirely justified in doing so. There's no excuse for the happy ending of Thomas's Hamlet, but I think both Massenet and Puccini (and their respective librettists) should be applauded for much of what they did to Manon Lescaut. A straight adaptation would most likely have given us one spectacularly sappy hero, one shallow love interest, and an audience unable to decide whom they'd like to throttle more. The des Grieux of the novel spends most of his time making terrible decisions, deceiving his friends, and crying. Manon exists only as the object of his obsessive love: she has practically no personality of her own, she barely even speaks — and when she does, it's usually to say something selfish, disingenuous or vain. It takes abject misery and squalor — the total absence of any better option — to bring out a bit of  honest emotion in Manon, and the fact that she dies in such misery, while certainly sad, is hardly heroism. 

It is to her operatic adaptors that we owe any sense of Manon's inner life. Massenet's "Adieu, notre petite table" has no equivalent in the novel — it can't, because we cannot, of necessity, see Manon alone; and it's hard to imagine the Manon do see making any such speech — and much of the rest of his version is likewise pure invention. The four fragmented vignettes of Puccini's Manon Lescaut are slightly closer to their source (although the gaps are many and chasm-like) but they still give Manon a better chance to display a bit of complex personality. Besides, the rich, varied and impassioned music Puccini gives her to sing is in itself proof of a far more fascinating, if no more likeable, character. We probably still don't sympathise with Manon, but at least we might now be better able to fathom des Grieux's fatal attraction to her.

It takes a special sort of singer to contend satisfactorily with this difficult character — to explore Manon's conflicted psychology and to convey her charms and her faults in equally compelling measure, and to do all of this without falling into trap of one easy stereotype or another, victim or temptress or virgin or whore. And even that isn't enough. She also needs to be able to sing Manon's spectacularly demanding and wide ranging music, and to sing it fantastically well: this is not a role to be coasted through. Puccini's orchestration is dense to say the least, and our Manon must somehow find a way to slice through it, soar above it and yet integrate herself within its varied textures. She has to be heard, and when she is, she must sound magnificent — there should be no such thing as an ordinary Manon Lescaut.

I don't imagine anybody has ever called Cheryl Barker ordinary. Entrancing as ever, she has found her way into Manon with her characteristic blend of intelligence, subtlety and apparent abandon, and she has done it at a time when her voice is as ideal for the role as it will ever be. She has the bright pliability of tone to capture Manon's youth and the maturity to chart her downfall convincingly; the sheer power to encompass the role's dynamic extremes and the artistry to make sense of everything that lies between those extremes. It's a massive role and she doesn't have a massive voice, but she is a master of her craft and has taken possession of this role as electrifyingly as she always does. 

The three faces of Manon — country girl, kept woman, convict — are so different from one another, and so vividly sketched within themselves, that they are almost three separate characters; one could even oversimplify and compare them to Trittico's Lauretta, Giorgetta and Angelica. Any reasonably talented singing actress could probably succeed quite well in capturing one or all of them in isolation. It's the special gift of an artist like Cheryl that she is able to bridge the gaps, to overcome (as far as possible) the obstacles inherent in the opera itself and join the contrasting facets of Manon's story into one complicated but coherent characterisation. She doesn't try to turn her into a tragic heroine, but nor is this Manon's beauty skin deep: instead she inhabits a shifting middle ground, and she scintillates. Her Manon is exactly as adorable as she should be — no more and definitely no less.

Puccini might have allowed Manon a dash of extra life but he's not quite so kind to des Grieux. At least our pauvre chevalier doesn't spend quite so much time crying as in the novel, but in creating its four focused scenes it inevitably clears away a lot of what informs his wretched life. From the moment he meets Manon, we only ever see him in pursuit of her or prostrated by her. His escalating misbehaviour and attendant self hatred is all omitted. Admittedly, it wouldn't make for fascinating theatre — you'd risk a sort of boy's own version of Suor Angelica — it does serve to underline just how pathological and desperate his relationship with Manon is, not to mention the difference in the way each of them suffers for love. 

Jorge Lopez-Yanez works as succesfully within these confines as anyone might. With opportunities for characterisation limited, he channels as much tremulous Italianate anguish into his voice as it will take. He takes full advantage of des Grieux's brief pre-Manon scenes. His "Tra voi belle" is sung with charming lightness of touch and he's convincing as an amiable but studious young man, highlighting the drastic change his fortunes will soon begin to take. He sings beautifully throughout, with only the very top of his voice showing signs of some wear and tear. It's just a joy to hear a secure, idiomatic Italianate tenor in our opera theatre, because heaven knows, we don't have enough of them. He does stagger about a bit more than necessary in the desert but his singing there is focused, brilliant and deeply felt; and occasionally he'll throw in a genuinely swoonworthy pianissimo — always appreciated.

The first encounter between Manon and des Grieux is more convincing vocally than physically. Jorge's firm, ardent voice is well matched as the dominant partner to Cheryl's lightly sung, susceptible Manon. The air between them doesn't exactly quiver with romantic tension, however, so that when she suddenly capitulates to his plea that she meet him again, it's not entirely clearly why she feels so compelled. Then again, there's something telling in the way they interact in this first scene: des Grieux, all sighs and longing looks, is excited solely by Manon, whereas she seems as thrilled by the experience as by her suitor. Their later interactions are more persuasive but the chemistry never really sizzles. (He's also hampered in the Act Two love scene by her extraordinary gold frock.) Both are appealing and committed performers in their own ways but their different approaches don't collide as explosively as one might have hoped from a couple who suffer so much for one another. Each is more compelling in separation than in togetherness — perhaps that's fitting after all. 

The two other men in Manon's life are not quite so well cast. I love Teddy Tahu Rhodes as much as anyone (well, maybe not as much some people, but you get the idea) and he's certainly a charismatic and imposing presence onstage, but I don't think Puccini is really ideal repertoire for him. He's in great voice as Manon's brother, and he is rather good in his semi-aria in Act Two, but I don't think he has quite the oily sound I'd to hear in this role: Lescaut is bad news. It's also hard to reconcile his bouncy roguishness in Act One with his self-serving creepiness in Act Two. Of course, like des Grieux, he's not helped by all the information left out of the opera: it's very hard to get a handle on Lescaut's true nature when most of his life goes unexplained. I have bigger issues with the casting of Richard Alexander as Geronte di Ravoir. They're not vocal issues: he sings wonderfully well. I just think he looks and sounds too young, and no amount of makeup and body padding can disguise that — in fact, they only make it more obvious. The point about Geronte, as far as I'm concerned, is that he represents a character (or characters) in the novel who, while they are old and foolish, also hold, by virtue of their wealth and social status, a degree of real power over Manon. Geronte might be stupid, but he's dangerous: he can ruin Manon, and he does. Casting Alexander, and costuming him as they have, turns him into a commedia dell'arte buffoon — he might as well be Bartolo — and I'd much rather a Geronte who looks and sounds like a genuine threat. 

The revelation among the bit parts is Stephen Smith, although after his excellent Beppe in Pagliacci I'm not sure if revelation is exactly the word. At any rate, he bounds about the stage exuding youthful exuberance, and his light, bright tenor is in top form. His Edmondo is a sort of Arlecchino-like figure, dashing about engineering intrigues, and doing it all with such a palpable sense of fun. He's a joy to watch, and if that voice keeps developing as it is, I daresay we'll see him in larger roles before very long. Meanwhile there's a clutch of quite luxuriously cast cameos: Dominica Matthews as the Madrigal Singer, Andrew Brunsdon as the Lamplighter and Graeme Macfarlane at his flitting, effete best as the Dancing Master. The chorus (women especially) camp it up as villagers and tarts, and sing with that same enthusiasm. Alexander Polianichko's reading is grand and sensuous and all those things you expect from a Manon Lescaut; the singers are occasionally swamped but I'm inclined to blame Puccini as much as anyone else for that. The Intermezzo is quite beautifully played but spoiled somewhat by the crashes and bangs from behind the curtain as the set is changed. 

There's not a vast deal I can say about Gale Edwards's production. It's reasonably solid and traditional but far from lifeless. She gives her singers the tools to just get on with telling the story and that's what they do, supported by some fantastic sets and costumes. The only really unusual flourish is her suggestion that Lescaut harbours some pretty unbrotherly feelings for Manon: she spends much of their Act Two conversation gently removing his wandering hands. It's an unexpected thought but an intriguing one: like the set of old aristocrats who come to stare at her during her dance lesson, it reinforces the sense of Manon as a commodity, as something to be consumed. It also functions quite well as a substitute for all the other morally reprehensible behaviour which Lescaut gets up to in the novel, and a symbol of the corruption of Manon's gilded life: especially since her reaction to his caresses is only mild annoyance — like batting a fly away — rather than outrage. Otherwise it's all reasonably straightforward. There's enough to mull over (and just plain enjoy) in the story as is, so Edwards just lets it play itself out.

Let's be honest. Manon Lescaut is important in terms of Puccini's development. It has definite charms and some extraordinary passages. But it's not a great opera, or at least, not Great with a capital G. Flawed Puccini, however, is still Puccini, and still a rewarding experience, especially when sung and staged as well as this one has been. Opera doesn't always need to be transcendent and sublime, even when it's a tragedy of sorts. This Manon Lescaut probably won't shatter your nerves completely, but it is grand and gorgeous, and when it really wants to move you — it can. Or, dare I say it, she can. It's a strong production from top to toe, but when solid gives way to special, the reason is usually Cheryl Barker. She can't help but shine, and the show is all the richer for it. 

Ce soir

How odd. After Baroque Masterpieces and Aida I stayed up well past bedtime to blog about them, just for the instant gratification of a write up of some of the thoughts buzzing about my brain. So you'd think Manon Lescaut would have me keener than ever to shout a thousand and one things from the rooftops. Instead, I'm happy to let it sit for a bit.

Why? I think the answer is pure contentment. I'll write my reviews soon enough, but for tonight I'm happy to let my critical faculties take a break. I don't want to pull it apart tonight. I'm not trying to suggest that it was mindshatteringly perfect. Just that it worked. Very well indeed. I loved it.

A part of my contentment is the joy of plain old good storytelling, the sort which leaves me mulling over the drama itself far more than the merits and machinery of its staging. A part of it is Puccini. And part of it is the afterglow which follows an evening spent in the company of my luminous favourite soprano: Cheryl Barker, whose singular intelligence, boundless energy and ohthatvoice make her Manon a force to be reckoned with.

For now, c'est tout.

Elina

I've already posted links to it here and on Twitter. But Wanderer has reminded me just how brilliant this little video is, so pardon the repetition (and my one-track mind — but you're used to that) as I now embed it. This is the official Nederlandse Opera trailer for their Vec Makropulos. It features conductor Yannick Nézet-Séguin and our own Cheryl Barker, looking even more Pre-Raphaelite than usual in her red wig and singing the living daylights out of Janacek's excruciatingly wonderful music.

I also like the part where she bites a man (Jaroslav Prus?) on the neck. And for the millionth time, I Want To Be In Amsterdam. 

Forever young

Update 21.5.09: Seems I don't need to play aggregator. The Nederlandse Opera website is doing it for me, supplying all the assistance a sad tragic devotee such as I could ask for to make up for the agony of not being there. They've got reviews (in Dutch, but short version: they love her — of course), a selection of extremely gorgeous photos (be still my beating heart!) and even a YouTube video which, being stuck on dial up internet, I haven't yet seen, but as soon as I hit "save" on this post, you can guess where I'm heading next. Thank god for the internet: until the opera fairy pays my fare to Amsterdam, these tantalising glimpses are my only sustenance. Anyway, it's not about me, it's about Cheryl, who is proving yet again how gloriously sensational she is. As always, brava, and vive la reine.

 

A slightly belated toi toi toi and all that to Our Own Cheryl Barker, who opened in the Netherlands Opera's production of Vec Makropulos last night. And while Amsterdam basks in the glow of Cheryl's devastatingly gorgeous Marty, I'm on holiday in the frozen depths of New Zealand, awaiting reports of her blazing success. So I'll post links to reviews and so on here and on Twitter as I find them (can't resist) but beyond that, probably not a vast amount of blogging until I get back to Sydney at the end of the month.  

Quindici netti

Lauretta, Arabella, Tatyana, Salome, Cio Cio San ... not to mention Manon Lescaut and even, way back when, Cherubino ... here's wishing a happy, happy birthday to my favourite teenager. 

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. 

Cheryl

Paving stones are unworthy. Let's do the thing properly.

I don't suppose now that I will ever know just how far my own personal devotion goes towards colouring the experience of Cheryl Barker in performance. I do know that I am not alone in responding to her with enthusiasm, affection and a certain degree of awe. My perception of her is that she is extraordinary; that she radiates a vitality and a generosity that I have seen in no other performer of my experience; that she is a supremely intelligent artist; that she is a taker of fabulous risks; and that, hand in hand with all of this, she has a voice which pierces immediately whichever little piece of my heart and/or soul it is that brings me to my knees and makes a devotee of me. I would be a fool to claim that this was in any way an objective perception. I don't want an objective perception. I have enough grasp of the facts of this art form to function as some kind of critic without, I hope, losing every shred of credibility; but when those reviews are done and dusted, the truth which remains is that somewhere along the line in the last two years, Cheryl Barker took hold of me in that mysterious way that opera singers occasionally do, and that she has not released me — nor, if I can help it, will I let her. 

Something specific about her final Butterfly tonight. If I can find a way to write about it. 

And the winner is...

My sidebar poll on prospective Music Directors for Opera Australia closed on Friday night, by which time the question had become slightly irrelevant: the company has now announced that it will instead seek to appoint a full time Artistic Director and subsequently a Chief Conductor. However, many of the candidates for MD might well be considered potential Chief Conductors, too, so feelings about them are still of interest.

Of the candidates listed by name, Ascher Fisch held the lead for almost two weeks, but at the last moment was pipped at the post by Oleg Caetani, who gained 20% of the total vote. Fisch remained in second place at 16%. Other strong contenders, at 10% each, were Patrick Summers and Mark Elder. They were followed, in descending order, by Emmanuel Joel-Hornak, Richard Armstrong, Anthony Walker and, in last equal place, Paul Daniel and Alexander Briger. 

Suggestions in the "other" category ran as follows (at least one of these is a joke, but I'm reproducing the whole list for interest's sake):

Johannes Fritzsch (x2)

Giovanni Reggioli (x2)

[This means both Fritzsch and Reggioli place ahead of Daniel and Briger in the overall result.]

Andrea B*celli [sic - I'm hoping the asterisk might stave off a flood of Google referrals]

Andrea Licata 

Sebastian Weigle

Anthony Pasquill

Daniel Tianhao Liu

In other news, Joy FM show The Fool and the Opera ran a very nice interview tonight with Cheryl Barker, in which she confirmed two very important matters: firstly, that she is utterly charming, and secondly, that she will, as rumoured, sing Tosca in the 2010 season. In fact, what she said was "at the end of this year" which suggests this Tosca might, like Butterfly did this season,  be set to open the 2010 season at the tail end of December 2009. Keep an eye on the above-linked TFATO blog for a podcast of the full interview.

Wie ein Wunder vor mir

Oh, what the hell, since I will never do it for real...

 

Her Four Last Songs were sublime. She was a priceless jewel in a slightly problematic setting. Armstrong's take on the songs was a bit too fast and brutal, and the blurry acoustic threw the sound somewhat off balance, so that where she should have entwined with the orchestra she was instead at times subsumed. Had I not been reviewing, I would have sat much closer, thrown the balance off completely but been closer to just her voice. Anyway, it doesn't matter, nothing alters the grace and beauty of her artistry or the black pearl sheen of her voice, nothing alters her intoxicating legato or her sense of Straussian line, and nothing alters the fact of an interpretation so individualised and so committed that her (butterfly-shaped!) music stand practically disappeared. Over much too soon, and had it lasted hour upon hour, the same would be true. I'd like to live in the rapturous climax of her "Beim Schlafengehen" for as long as my poor heart could take it — then expire in the perfect peace of her "ist dies etwa der Tod". She remains our extraordinary Cheryl. Vive la reine. 

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. 

Allez-y!

In just a few minutes, a certain Australian diva storms the Bastille as Robert Wilson's Alien Butterfly. I predict she'll take more than just seven prisoners. 

In bocca al lupo, Alien Butterfly!

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.

Upstanding

I was all set to grumble about tonight's audience for Butterfly. Nine billion throats cleared, at least three sets of people who clattered out before it was over, a whining child, laughter in the sad bits, a couple in front of me who arrived after interval and spent the rest of the night falling asleep on each other and the place crawling with tourists. However, I take it all back. I am immensely proud of tonight's audience. 

Because we stood. For Cheryl. Not for the whole cast. For Cheryl, alone on the stage, as she took her final bow. And it was a proper standing ovation, too, none of this half-hearted straggling, a few people standing because they want and everyone else following suite because they think they ought. She stepped forward and within two seconds, the entire audience was on its feet. And I've racked my brain trying to think if I've ever seen this happen here before, and do you know what? I haven't. Emma got a scattered standing ovation for her Lucia, but some of those people were just caught out on the way to catch their buses. I gave Cheryl a standing ovation of one from my loge for one of her Otellos, and four or five of us stood for her on opening night. And that's it. 

In San Francisco everyone stood on every night I attended, apparently as a matter of course. Here, it isn't like that. They barely let you finish clapping before the house lights go up and you're swept out the door. So this was a bit special. Congratulations, audience. All is forgiven. You have excellent taste.

(And yes, I've got myself all out of order. Real(ish) post on Butterfly coming soon. Well, sooner than Pinkerton at any rate.)

CB

It's the post which should write itself, but which nonetheless never seems to get written. I was going to write it after my first Arabella. Then after my last. Then during Otello, then during The Makropulos Secret. Then Christmas Eve, Butterfly Eve, New Year's Eve, New Year's Day. Something always got in the way — holidays, cable TV and that creeping fear of sappy self indulgence. However, enough is enough. The festivities are done with, the TV is switched off and if I'm self indulgent and sappy, well, you're used to that by now. 

I want to write about Cheryl Barker. And yes, I know, I've said it all (and you've heard it all) many times before. Perhaps not all, though. 

Cheryl Barker has been for me a remarkable phenomenon. Almost without my notice, she has framed my Australian operatic experience from its infancy. While I fixated, besotted, on the other one, she was nevertheless there. I blush to confess — though I have done so before — that my first feelings towards her were quite opposite to what they are now. Before I had heard her sing a note, I decided I Did Not Like Her. To me she was the soprano who cancelled without notice her appearance in Opera Australia's 50th anniversary gala and the soprano who seemed to poised to usurp the honour of Australia's prima donna. Such petty biases on my part are beyond foolish, and I have always known it and always succumbed to them — my only defence is that I usually recover.

And so I did with Cheryl. I went grumbling to her Rusalka and emerged beaming. My mutterings about the preferential treatment she was receiving — role after role after role, every one a plum — turned to rejoicing. Slowly at first. Glorious as her Rusalka was, it was in her Giorgetta (in Il tabarro) that the initial, crucial moment arrived. Running into the theatre two minutes late, I was ushered up to E-reserve to await the interval, when I'd be seated properly. I sank, exhausted, into my seat and was thrust immediately into that gem of an opera, and before I knew it, she hit me between the eyes. For the first time ever, she sang a phrase and I thought: that is such a Cheryl kind of sound. And it brought tears to my eyes.

Still, it was only a beginning, not an all conquering thunderclap. But she stayed with me, and I felt compelled to see her again. And then again, on my twenty-third birthday. Only this time, she cancelled. I was crushed — and now I knew I was hooked. I bought the CDs — all two of them — and counted the hours to her next appearance, in the unwittingly hilarious Don John of Austria. By the end of the year, all hope for my sanity had evaporated. I was her fan. I was mad about her. 

So naturally, I waited to see if I would get over it. I am very very good at losing my heart to sopranos, but they are so lovable, and there are so many to love, that total constancy can be difficult. Besides which, she hardly seemed my type. The voices I've gone mad for in the past have been, almost without exception, silvery Mozart sopranos and silken Handel mezzos. What was I doing listening daily to a Butterfly, a Tosca, a Katya Kabanova?

To be honest, I still don't have an answer to that. Although, as we've seen, her repertoire has turned out to encompass some of the music and heroines closest to my heart. She's even begun establishing herself as Australia's next important Strauss soprano. In fact, whatever my preconceptions, it's pretty blindingly obvious that she is exactly my type. I keep waiting for the shine to wear off but it never does — I get as ridiculously excited about her voice now as ever, and maybe even more so. It isn't something that can be rationally explained in terms of sonic quality, of technical skill, of this or that kind of artistry. In all those field, she is superb by any standards, but that special thing that makes a person go mad for a singer — it isn't to be put into words, despite being in many ways the whole foundation of this blog.

If you've stuck with (or discovered) this blog during the past year, then you know what's happened since. You've read my outpouring heres, as I attended performance after performance — all I missed was one matinée of Otello — and trawled through the thesaurus for new ways to say "beautiful". I could happily retrace the magnificence of all those evenings, but I shan't inflict that upon you yet again. But isn't it incredible — and aren't we spoilt rotten — that within the space of ten months, in our very own city, we've seen one fabulous singer take on such a varied and demanding series of roles, and triumph in them so captivatingly? Arabella, Desdemona, Emilia Marty and now Cio-Cio San, all within less than a year and each sufficient on its own to delight the heart of a devotee such as myself. 

Some, no doubt, will say she has been given too much, that her prominence here is now too great. I used to feel the same way about another soprano, before the wind started to change. When it comes to Cheryl, however, such considerations are nothing to me. I feel like the proverbial kid in a candy store, faced with an array of operatic prospects almost too mouthwatering to believe, and the promise of more and more and more to come. And unlike that kid, my particular indulgence never leaves me feeling ill, no matter how much I seem to overdo it. What Cheryl leaves me feeling is happy, stupidly happy. A thousand other adjectives as well, but above it all, it's happiness I think of when I think of Cheryl. 

I declared 2007 the Year of Cheryl, and so felt obliged to restrain myself from doing the same thing again for 2008. In fact, it looks as if, for the indefinite future, every year will be the Year of Cheryl, at least in my world. It's a prospect which, like every note she sings, has me grinning like an idiot. A sappy, self indulgent idiot who has gone on at preposterous length — but I'm afraid I can't help it, and nor do I want to. Cheryl Barker is a joy and a privilege to behold and I thank my lucky stars I have so many opportunities to do so. A little adoring excess is the least I can do.

Puccini at Customs House

There's intimate, and there's intimate. We praise the intimate nature of performances in the City Recital Hall. Even the Opera Theatre seems pretty intimate compared to a grand American opera house. Intimate is a relative concept.

Intimate is one thing. Pacific Opera's fundraising concert last night, billed as "An Intimate Puccini Evening" was quite another. The Barnet Long Room at Customs House is a pretty tiny venue to begin with, seating only 160 in what they call "theatre style". For last night's concert, I doubt it sat even that many. We entered via the stage, stepping down into the seating area to find only four or five long rows arranged lengthways in the centre, facing a stage not much larger than a reasonably large dining room table. 

This was intimate and then some, the sort of set-up where it feels almost inappropriate to sit in the front row. Almost. I did, of course, sit in the front row. Front and centre. Hardly surprising, since I am always a front row kind of girl, but even less so when you realise that this intimate evening was to be shared with the extraordinary Cheryl Barker and her gorgeous husband, Peter Coleman-Wright. Masterfully accompanied by Pacific Opera's music director Andrew Greene, they sang excerpts from Madama Butterfly, Tosca and Manon Lescaut, interspersed with shorter pieces from Pacific Opera alumni, James Roser and Penelope Mills, and commentary and anecdotes from the always engaging Moffatt Oxenbould. 

Moffatt opened proceedings, praising, before anything else, the extraordinary acoustic of this unusual venue. He was clearly excited as he explained to us that they had discovered, in first trying the room out, that it produced a "rehearsal ambience", that live, resonant acoustic which performers always strive to reproduce in the more cavernous space of an opera theatre, but which, in its raw, ideal state, is not often experienced by us mere punters. He promised us something "quite extraordinary", underlining repeatedly the intensity of what was to come. His words could also have been construed as a warning to the faint hearted. 

Intense was putting it mildly. Incredible acoustic, small space, singers in full flight and an audience so close that even those in the back row were probably not much further from the stage than a front row audience at the opera house would be. It's not every day you experience a concert in such conditions, and thank god for that — this was magnificent, but if all performances were like this, it would be a health hazard. As it was, the sheer power and richness of sound might have proved a bit overpowering for some tastes. The concert might have been on a very small scale, but the performances certainly weren't. If you loved the voices in question, this was heaven; if you didn't, well, it might have been hard going. 

But I can't imagine anybody could have felt anything but love, or at the very least, admiration, for these four voices. Penelope Mills was all sweetness and light, particularly touching as Mimi in the duet with Marcello (one of only two points in La bohème which soften my stony heart) and James Roser's smooth baritone was lovely to hear. 

And then there were Cheryl and Peter. Are we spoilt, or what? I know it's standard Antipodean practice to gaze, green-eyed, at the concert schedules of Paris, New York, London and Milan but there are moments when such jealousy is left in the dust. This was one of them. There was nowhere I would rather have been last night than Circular Quay, sitting barely five feet away from the one soprano I'd rather hear than any other in the world, listening, awestruck, as she blazed her way through the kind of "Vissi d'arte" which, had I been hidden away in a big, dark theatre, would have made an embarrassing mess of me. The fact that all I had to do to get there was finish work, change my shoes and take a two minute train ride just adds to the preposterous good fortune of it all. 

They began with Butterfly, the scene between Sharpless and Cio Cio San. What a luxury to have Peter as Sharpless. I love his voice more all the time, partly by association, it's true, but mostly because he's fabulous. He's one of few baritones whose voices I think I would recognise immediately. Nobody else sounds quite like Peter, and nothing sounds quite so good as Peter did in this particular venue. And if we're speaking of luxuries, the greatest of all is to have such an intimate audience with the Butterfly of Cheryl Barker, one of the Butterflies of her generation. Adjectives are redudant, she just owns this role, and that's that. Her "Che tua madre dovra" was wonderfully hard to take at such close range, and when she mimed the sword-in-neck on "Morte!", I flinched. 

Then Tosca, the duet between Scarpia and Tosca. The woman who, only ten or fifteen minutes earlier, had been such an earnest and finely wrought Butterfly, was instantly a fiery, imperious Tosca, so terrifyingly real that you'd scarcely believe it was the same woman, in the same dress. And yet she was, and she was...oh, I don't know. Supply your own superlative. Peter was indecently smooth and suave, quite genuinely lecherous in his advances even if they were on his own wife. Peter and Cheryl, it has to be said, do chemistry remarkably well, be it this kind or the Arabella kind. Their duetting was fantastic, but Cheryl's "Vissi d'arte" was on another plane — despite all of us breathing down her neck, and without sets, costumes or more than a few minutes of context, she was utterly, thrillingly in character, singing those oh so familiar words with revelatory conviction and that steely yet graceful voice of hers, the one which slices my heart into a thousand besotted shards. 

Finally, a fragment of Manon Lescaut, truly only a fragment as they'd opted to drop Manon's "In quelle trine morbide" and begin from "Poiche tu vuoi saper". A shame to miss out on the aria, but just quietly, I love the subsequent duet even better. It's included on the duets disc they recorded for ABC Classics, and I never tire of hearing Cheryl's impassioned "Vieni! Vieni", so it was bliss to hear it (and the rest) in the flesh. Peter was a beautiful big brother, and Cheryl an irresistible Manon, moving convincingly from coquetry to sincere affection and concern. As if I needed another reason to look forward to her debut in the role next season. 

And that was it. No encores, partly, I suspect, because the set-up in the theatre meant it took them most of their ovation just to get backstage again. My calculations tell me it was a two hour concert, so I suppose it must have been, but it felt quite a lot shorter. I could happily have taken a lot more of the same. Then again, just that "Vissi d'arte" should sustain me for quite a while yet. So, thank god for Pacific Opera, and for their need to fundraise. Philanthropy never felt so good. 

Singing and silence

This run of The Makropulos Secret isn't the first time I've attended the entire season of an opera, but it has without a doubt been the most rewarding. Each performance on its own would probably have been enough to keep even a smitten fool such as myself quite gushingly happy. As for six, well, what can I say? I have had a marvellous time, and it has gone much too quickly. Now that it's over, it's time I paid final tribute to the artistic team who has brought this Makropulos Secret to such stunning life.

So, I salute...

...John Pringle, whose performance as Baron Prus marked his retirement from Opera Australia after forty-one years.  I regret that I haven't lived here long enough to appreciate the scope and excellence of his career. But his Prus was a masterpiece, and his singing to the very end was all class — a perfect final flourish. Kudos to him, too, for throwing a joke about nepotism (rather a hot topic at OA these days) into his farewell speech.

...the fabulous front-of-house woman (I don't know her name or official title, but I am her biggest fan) who equipped us with handfuls of streamers to throw at the end.

...the subscriber who, as his usual seatmates informed me, had exchanged his ticket, leaving A27 free for me to book.

...Neil Armfield, whose talent for directing amazing opera borders on the ridiculous.

...Richard Hickox, who, in the face of flickering lights, a disappearing soprano and a temperamental curtain, conducted four fabulous performances.

...Stephen Mould, who took over the last two performances with such panache.

...Nigel Levings (lighting) and Carl Friedrich Oberle (sets & costumes) for their drop dead gorgeous design...and especially for Emilia's Act I costume, Hauk-Sendorf's travelling suit, the giant, handless clock, the crack in the wall and Emilia's shadow.

...Andrew Collis, for being SO funny, and for ending Act I in a way that simply demands applause. He may be my favourite Opera Australia Andrew, although there a lot to choose from.

...Catherine Carby, whose Kristina is so very lovely. Kristina's main function is to be overshadowed, of course. For her two brief scenes in the spotlight, though, Catherine is pure joy — in a different sort of opera, her voice and charisma could easily carry the show.

...Kanen Breen, not always my favourite voice, as we know, but a reliably engaging performer with a host of talents, including a rare gift for physical comedy, which make him a true asset to the company.

...Jacqui Dark, if for no other reason that that I flat out ADORE her, and can't wait for her Komponist in Melbourne next year.

...Dominica Matthews, for being fabulous, and because I am inevitably a fan of redheaded opera singers. I'm willing to bet she'll ace her Orlando in Melbourne next month, and I sort of wish we'd seen her here, too.

...Andrew Goodwin. Adorable does not do him justice. Hope he's happy playing guileless young heroes forever, because he's made for it.

...Peter Wedd, whose rather interesting voice I'd love to hear in a role really designed to show it off. And I loved the twitchy way he played Gregor, as if he'd walked straight out of a Peter Wimsey story.

...Shane Lowrencev, for being nine feet tall. And a rather nifty singer to boot.

...Robert Gard, for stealing the show in such brilliantly lunatic fashion, for still sounding fantastic at 81(?), and for very graciously signing my programme. 

...Dinah Shearing, for her simply beautiful performance as Emilia Marty Incarnate. Her entrance brought tears to my eyes every single time, and her playing of that whole final scene was quite extraordinary. 

...the men's chorus, not just for their big moment at the end (which I love) but for so gamely donning skirts and bobbed wigs in Act I to play the women in Kolenaty's waiting room.

...Leoš Janáček, for absolutely everything, obviously, but in particular for the devastating solo strings which herald Emilia's final transformation. And, oh, so many other things...

...Seat C40. It knows why.

And I salute Cheryl Barker. Repeatedly. I know that I am losing credibility by the minute where Cheryl is concerned. I also know that I am running out of new words for her, so forgive me if I recycle a few of the old ones. The fact is that you do not have to be smitten — you do not have to be me — to appreciate that Cheryl's Emilia was a work of ravishing inspiration. You only had to hear the fire in her voice, or see it in her eyes... and then I defy you to resist. In his own farewell speech, John Pringle, with remarkable modesty, took the opportunity to solicit an extra ovation for his phenomenal leading lady. "I don't think there is anybody else in the world," he said, "who could match Cheryl in this role...or even come close." High praise indeed, and she deserves every syllable of it. She's stunning, and we are beyond fortunate to have her here. Somewhere in composer heaven, Janáček must be smiling.

Emilia, again

God, Cheryl. How do you do it? Where do you find the strength?

I don't mean strength. Do I? Strength sounds boring. Strength sounds like brute force. Cheryl Force is more elegant and more inspired than just workmanlike strength. Five times I've felt the force of her Emilia Marty. That's not a mistake, by the way. I do mean five times. The Emilia she mimed might have been less than conventional, but she packed a punch just the same. Five times, though, and one more to come. People think I'm brave, or mad, or both, facing this opera six times. Please, that's easy. Singing it? Inhabiting it with all that gorgeous ferocity? That's what takes courage, and genius and, yes, staggering strength. 

Beholding the culmination of those gifts is a piece of cake. Nothing is more magnificently easy than being a part of Cheryl Barker's appreciative audience. I can't tell you how magical she is to see and to hear, to experience in full flight. I will, of course, keep trying. Can't help but try: she is not conducive to dead silence. Speechlessness, yes, but that only lasts so long before all my amazement comes tumbling out. Though I'm saving up the real paean till after closing night. This, if you can believe it, is just a snippet.

One moment of tonight stands above all the rest. A moment of total self-indulgence on my part. Having spent Acts I and II in Row A, I strategically moved myself for the final act. Nerdishness in action. I knew exactly where I wanted to be when she sang her "Pater hemon! Pater hemon! Elina Makropulos!" and fainted. I was preposterously close to her. Only Dr Kolenaty was closer. It felt almost intrusive, but mostly it was just inspiring: the fire and focus in her eyes, her expression, her whole body and, of course, in that sensational voice were a wonder to behold.

The Makropulos Curse

It's beginning to feel like that. Opening night, the lights went out and briefly stopped the show. The Saturday matinée did pass without event. Tuesday night was the Night of Three Emilias (Cheryl, Anke and Dinah Shearing), which I've heard described since as a "travesty" and a "trainwreck", among other things. Tonight, Cheryl's voice was back — or at least, enough of it to allow her to sing. She was a bit underpowered and, I thought, a bit distracted — understandable — but still delivered a top shelf performance, even if she isn't quite back in full health yet. But the curtain wouldn't work, so we had the enlightening, if somewhat disillusioning experience of watching the set changes. Emilia's Act Two throne, from which she receives all her suitors, kept sliding precariously about the place. And when Hauk-Sendorf brought her his wife's jewels in the final act, a string broke, and beads went flying everywhere.

So, not the best performance in the run so far, but still pretty fantastic. It sort of has to be. Funny thing with the ending. It seems the sort of coup de theatre which would work best by stealth: that the emergence of Emilia Marty Incarnate would have its greatest impact when unexpected. And yet I find it gets to me more every time I see it. Knowing it's coming only increases its power. The haunting strings which accompany her entry help as well, of course.

Audience too small, as usual, but nice and responsive — laughing at all the jokes, and a couple of the not-really-jokes as well, and clapping with suitable enthusiasm. Robert Gard's Hauk-Sendorf got his mid-act applause, as he ought. I'm hoping the web special will mean a fuller house for Tuesday's performance, and that our prima donna will be back to full, fearsome strength by then too.

And no, it hasn't escaped my notice that almost everything I've posted in the last couple of weeks has been tagged with the category "Cheryl Barker", but then, what did you expect? Diva is my (and this blog's) raison d'être.

Prima donna speaks sense

The Sydney Morning Herald's Letters Page today includes the following:

I am writing to show my support for Opera Australia, its chief executive, Adrian Collette, and its musical director, Richard Hickox. I cannot believe this debacle is still going on. It is damaging the reputation of Australian opera internationally, something Hickox has been championing when abroad, as have other Australian international performers. By securing the release of live recordings by Chandos Records, Opera Australia performances are being heard internationally.

These recordings would not have come about had it not been for Hickox. It is about time the media jumped off the bandwagon of a few bitter and disgruntled people and appreciated the good things.

Cheryl Barker Pyrmont

The link was forwarded to me while I was drafting my previous post. She took the words right out of my mouth. And I would add that chief among the "good things" is, of course, the letter's author herself.

For Cheryl

Get Well Soon.
And by soon, I mean by 7.30 tomorrow tonight.
We need our rightful Emilia back.

Cheryl Barker Lemsip Benevolent Fund

You may have gathered that I work in a classical music store. Several months ago, I had a call from a woman who wished to order the Chandos Opera in English recording of The Makropulos Case, featuring Cheryl Barker and conducted by Sir Charles Mackerras. I asked to whom I should address it.

"Anke Höppner"

Ah, I thought. So you're the cover. And while in other circumstances, I'd welcome a chance to hear Anke Höppner, in this particular state of affairs, I've been very much hoping I wouldn't.

But it happened. I was slow to realise what was going on. The usual white slips of paper were in evidence everywhere, except, as it happened, my seat. But I saw a music stand and a chair set up at one side of the stage, and was suspicious. Then I noticed other people looking at their white slips. There was a whisper between an usher and a regular, eliciting a raised eyebrow. I craned to see one of the white slips, hoping against hope to see a boy's photo on it. To no avail. Couldn't see anything.

Out trotted Stuart Maunder. My heart sank, and sank a little further as he struck the fatal blow, with those two words — Cheryl Barker. And then the subsequent "severe cold". I eyed the door, wondered how clattery my heels were, upbraided myself for considering such an ungracious action as walking out, and stayed put. And then, the glimmer of hope, which the music stand should have suggested to me earlier: Cheryl wouldn't sing, but she would walk through the role. Anke would sing from the side. And I would spend an evening coming to terms with my own superficiality.

You see, the question is, if I feel utterly wretched at the prospect of no Cheryl at all, but significantly buoyed by the prospect of a silent Cheryl, what does that say about my priorities? As it happens, they're not quite so skewed as first I thought. Yes, there was still much to be thrilled by in a voiceless Cheryl, but the voice was indeed a notable absence: I do like her (even) better with it than without. Besides, I have heard her recording of this piece many, many times, and have already heard her sing it live twice, so even with Anke singing, I could still hear Cheryl, in a manner of speaking. And while it's true my eyes were upon her for every moment she was visible (how could they not be?) this is not mere smitten gazing — she's gorgeous, yes, but it's what she does that's so totally fascinating.

If there's a flicker of a silver lining to her indisposition, it's that her silence brought her non-vocal gifts into even sharper relief. She sang with somebody else's voice, but her physical acting was as strong and as convincing as ever. Perhaps even more so. Occasionally she mouthed her lines ahead of their place in the music, delivering replies as they might be timed in a spoken play. She played drunk better than ever, freedom from vocal concerns seemingly allowing her to throw herself into the physicality of it with gay abandon.

The final scene was strange indeed, since this staging has the ancient Emilia Marty Incarnate (Dinah Shearing) mouthing the words sung by a ghostly Emilia/Elina — and now she, in turn, was mouthing words sung by somebody else again. It's curiously fitting that a heroine as extraordinary as Emilia should require three women to play her. Though the situation was hardly ideal, the scene lost surprisingly little of its power. After all, the music (oh, such music...) was still the same. Cheryl still gave it her magnificent all, just silently. Anke sang it gorgeously. I cried more than on opening night.

Meanwhile, I still await a proper chance to hear Anke Höppner sing. This was a surreal way to do it: she sang in quite impressively, especially given the circumstances, but without the benefit of a rehearsal process, or of having really entered into Emilia's mind, her voice was just voice — lovely, but without much characterisation. And that's no criticism, because she could not be expected, nor was it her job, to create her own particular Emilia. Her performance was what it was, and for that, it was commendable. While I want no Emilia Marty but Cheryl's, tonight did raise a question — why isn't Anke Höppner singing for Opera Australia in her own right?

The next performance is in three days. Here's hoping Cheryl spends the interim mainlining chicken soup and healing rapidly. Once was an interesting experience, as a novelty. Next time, I want her back. 

The Makropulos Secret

Ten minutes or so into The Makropulos Secret, Emilia Marty enters. She never leaves. Even when she exits, she doesn't leave. When she exits, she's the only thought in every mind, and her name — her names — are on everybody's lips. When she exits, the gap she's not filling has more presence than the human beings left behind. Emilia is everywhere, and just the thought of her intoxicates. Find yourself in the same room as her, and abandon all hope — you'll be hers for keeps, and she might not even notice.

Emilia is gorgeous. Emilia is terrifying. Emilia is cruel. Emilia is in agony. Emilia is inscrutable. Emilia is impossible to resist. Emilia is unlike any other woman in opera. Emilia is extraordinary, and she must be sung by somebody extraordinary.

"An extraordinary singer?" asks The Disembodied Voice of Geelong, "No worries. Here's one we prepared earlier." And there she is, made exquisitely to order. Our own Cheryl Barker, with all the charisma, beauty and sheer stamina the role demands — and a voice that goes on for mile after thrilling mile. She combines magnificent control with utter abandon, hurling herself into the role with electrifying passion, without ever letting it get the better of her. Emilia and Cheryl are made for one another. When they lock horns, both emerge victorious.

The role is a gift to an actress like Cheryl, who flawlessly embodies Emilia's every mercurial facet: her dispassionate flirtations, her clawing desperation, her razor sharp wit, her flashes of pained compassion and at last, her radiant benevolence. Emilia's journey to peaceful redemption is difficult and inconceivably long, and Cheryl charts it with imagination and clear, intelligent vision. Her performance is brilliantly detailed, full of small touches — not spread on as a layer of obvious cleverness on top, but incorporated as inevitable aspects of a coherent whole.

One of my favourite things is the way she uses her extraordinarily expressive eyes as a weapon, training them irresistibly upon whichever man she most needs in her thrall. In one particularly telling moment on opening night (I didn't notice it this afternoon, but I may have just blinked) she managed, in the midst of the third act's fraught, drunken confrontation with Prus, still to throw an unmistakeable come hither glance at Gregor, enough to discombobulate the poor boy completely, even before he knew she was his great-grandmother. Women aren't immune, either: she uses her lethal gaze on Kristina too.

Her singing has all the qualities of her physical portrayal: it is extreme, terrifying, rivetingly intense and devastatingly beautiful. Janáček makes some incredible vocal demands of his soprano, and the pressure never lets up — Emilia is singing difficult and often high-lying music from the beginning to the very end, with very few chances to rest. Such demands neither bend nor break our amazing Cheryl, they just make her stronger. I've come to expect that her voice will gain in colour and expanse as a performance progresses: that she will be excellent from the start, but that the final act will see her most astonishing singing. But in Makropulos, she hits that point about five minutes after she arrives, and stays there. Her voice is deceptively slender: given half a chance, it blooms to reveal a remarkable array of colour, dynamic range and, when called for, just plain volume. One could not wish for a better or more excitingly sung Emilia.

In normal circumstances, I might feel a little guilty for coming so far in the write-up having mentioned nobody but the soprano. For an opera such as this one, though, it seems peculiarly appropriate — both the score and the plot are, after all, thoroughly dominated by a soprano.

But let us speak now of the others. Such is Emilia's prominence that there seems no natural hierarchy to her supporting cast. Albert Gregor was given the second-to-last bow, but for reasons of my own, I'm choosing a different order.

I want to give first mention to a pair of Opera Australia stalwarts of long and distinguished standing. John Pringle is making his farewell to the company as Jaroslav Prus. I haven't been in this country long enough to properly appreciate the extent of his career. What I can say is that nothing about his performance suggests a man on the brink of retirement. He's a wonderfully understated Prus and his singing is impeccable.

Robert Gard's association with Opera Australia stretches back to the 1960s. Theoretically he's retired from the company (he still teaches, and appeared in the musical Titanic last year) but was requested specifically by Richard Hickox for this revival, having sung in the original 1996 production. He is, of course, Hauk-Šendorf, the delightfully loony old man who recognises Emilia from one of her previous lives. Nobody could steal the show permanently from Cheryl, but Robert manages, in his two brief appearances, momentarily to appropriate it. His exuberance is adorable, at once touching and riotously funny, and his enthusiasm wildly infectious. On opening night he managed what I'd have thought was impossible in a through-composed Janáček opera — spontaneous mid-act applause. It was very well deserved. (In the interest of full disclosure and/or name dropping: I know Robert, and adore him. But this was my first chance to see him in action; now I know he's as charming on stage as off.)

There's luxury casting for the rest of the women. Dominica Matthews, who starred in La Cenerentola, is the chambermaid; Jacqueline Dark, who should be starring in something, is wonderful as the cleaning lady. Kristina is Catherine Carby, a singer I'm loving more with every role. This is the best I've heard from her yet — she's light, silvery and girlish, without being cutesy. Next year's I Capuleti e i Montecchi might be packaged as an OEV (Obligatory Emma Vehicle) but it's the prospect of Catherine's Romeo which has me salivating.

The other men are impressive too. Peter Wedd's bright, vibrant tenor is a revelation to me, since my memories of Jenufa are shady at best. He plays Albert Gregor to antsy perfection, fidgeting and popping pills in anxious anticipation of a ruinous verdict and looking every inch the weedy, impoverished aristocrat. Andrew Goodwin is emerging as one of the company's most reliably appealing lyric tenors, with a clear, sweet voice and always engaging stage presence. His stammering, schoolboyish Janek is a delight: pathetic, but not irritating, so that one feels Prus' pain at his son's suicide, even while secretly laughing at Emilia's callous reaction. Andrew Collis (another Andrew! the company is teeming with them!) seems to be a relatively recent OA acquisition, though he's sung extensively in Germany and elsewhere in Australia. He seems in his element as Dr Kolenatý, finding no apparent difficulty in the extended passages of legalese patter. Even better is his mad scene, which concludes the first act. 

I came to an odd little realisation today. I'm pretty sure that the singer I've seen the most performances by this year is not, as you might think, Cheryl Barker, but rather ... Kanen Breen. Accidentally, mind you: he was the Prince in Cenerentola, and he's been cast in all three of Cheryl's productions, and so it's just sort of happened. Anyway, I have a patchy relationship with Kanen's voice, but Vítek sits nicely in the middle, which is where all his good sounds are, and makes very little use of his not-really-there upper register. And he's evidently having a marvellous time with the comedy of the role. One last boy — Shane Lowrencev in a very amusing turn as a stage hand. Still, it's a pretty big leap from this to Guglielmo next year, so we'll see how that turns out. There's a haunting men's chorus at the end too, emanating wonderfully from on high. And one further, non-singing performance which is just magical — Dinah Shearing's poignant appearance as Emilia Marty Incarnate, in the opera's extraordinary final scene, a magnificently shattering piece of staging.

The production is by Neil Armfield and has been revived by the man himself. He's a busy bee: his Billy Budd is running now as well, and the programme doesn't list a revival director for it, either. His Makropulos, like his Billy, is simple, illuminating and ultimately deeply moving. I'm learning to adore Neil Armfield. As obvious as it sounds — he tells the story. No mucking around, no complications, just intelligent, imaginative and lucid presentation of a narrative. Makropulos is fabulous theatre in its own right, and at the same time is in constant communication with the score, which again, seems an obvious requirement but in reality can't always be relied upon.

Richard Hickox conducts. Opening night patrons took the opportunity to demonstrate how fervently they disagreed with the complaints that have been in the papers lately — there was enthusiastic applause, and choruses of bravo. I like him too. Of course, Australia does just happen to have produced Mr Janáček himself, Sir Charles Mackerras, and it's his recording (the Chandos one, in English — same translation as here, with a few, occasionally annoying, alterations) I've been getting to know. But, as tends to be the case, hearing the opera live in the theatre makes its beauties even easier to come to grips with — and there are some very, very beautiful moments in Hickox's reading.

Not to mention in the score itself. Until opening night, I liked this opera a lot. Now I'm coming to love it. And with a performance like this one — and an Emilia as monumental as Cheryl's — who wouldn't?

Just one more

Well, two. A couple more links and then I promise my next post will have some substance to it. Honest.

For those who were at Makropulous last night, an explanation of what happened with the lights. (For those who weren't there — they went out. Quite dramatically. I was thinking "this is a rather arbitary effect" and then Hickox stopped the perfomance.)

And, yet another link to the OA site. "Cheryl continues to shine" — a chat with you-know-who about singing, acting, high heels, and what it's like being so outrageously fabulous. On getting her own way in Otello:

"If you have a different view from the director, you either have to convince him/her of your viewpoint, or he or she has to convince you of theirs...In this case I managed to talk the director into accepting my vision."

Oh, Cheryl, I love it when you talk diva...

The interview is well worth reading, even if you're not a fawning acolyte like me.

...un altro Otello

Yes, third time...

Best yet for Cheryl. Call me crazy — you probably already do — but I could see it in her eyes that she'd outdo herself, before she'd sung a note. Fired up, perhaps, by her Helpmann the night before. Her concentration is quite staggering — every moment, every inch of her, is so completely in character. The horror and fear on her face in Act III was hard to watch.

But, as my companion on opening night pointed out — she's doing an awful lot of significant stair climbing this season.

Jonathan Summers could give children nightmares. For one scary moment, he looked up at the monitor directly below my loge seat and that cruel gaze seemed fixed on me. I nearly shuddered. And he was so adorable in Gianni Schicchi...

And (indulge/ignore me, it's my blog) this time when he strangled her beneath the stairs, one arm reached back behind her head, over the top top step. Quivered, then dropped lifeless. It was a nicely macabre touch. I do love it, too, when she drags herself back up — it's like a horror movie.

But Otello's dagger is laughably blunt. I've seen plastic knives that were more convincing.

I keep expecting to start being bored during the boys' scenes but guess what? I like all of it. That's a testament to the opera and the production, of course; and maybe my horizons are broadening after all. (But I still like Desdemona the best.) Two more booked, I may add more besides. I'll try not to follow every single one of them with a content-free post like the above.

...un Otello ancora

My second Otello. I like it when opening night is out of the way, reviews done with, and I can stop acting the crritic [sic] and just enjoy the opera in terms of my own peculiar biases. Although I can't help second guessing whatever I wrote the last time. This convention of reviewing opening night has its uses, but just how indicative opening night is of the success of a whole season varies, I suspect. A response written after three or four performances, spread out through a run, would be quite a different creature. It would also defeat most of the purpose of reviewing in the first place, which I guess is why it's not done. That's all by the by, though.

I moaned on opening night about limp and hazy conducting but it had a bit more oomph last night. Sitting a few rows closer might have contributed to that, since you practically have to climb into the pit to hear the orchestra properly. (And even then the listening conditions are apparently far from ideal.) In any case, it was an improvement, though I'm still not quite satisfied. True, I don't help matters by listening to Karajan's Otello in between performances. What got on my nerves especially, probably because it's one of my favourite passages in all of opera, was Desdemona's Willow Song and Ave Maria. Hewett seems a bit too keen to keep everything moving. It's not rushed, exactly; just a bit blunt and insensitive. My feeling is that this scene should be as eerily serene as you can make it. I don't think it's possible to overdo the quiet. Instead we just sort of chug through the prelude. Cheryl helps matter a lot once she starts singing, but she'd be even better served by orchestral playing as haunting as she is.

Also, I am starting to feel there is something missing. I think it's love, or chemistry at least. There isn't a great deal palpable between Otello and Desdemona. I don't like to point the finger, but facts are facts: it ain't Cheryl who's letting down the side. This is cruel of me, because there is so much to admire about Dennis O'Neill's Otello. He does military hero remarkably well but stumbles on romantic hero. There's little to justify Desdemona's affectionate manner, nor is there much evidence of his adoration for her. We ought to sense that their former happiness has been as intense as the violence of their miserable end. Whence could such passionate jealousy spring, if not from equally passionate love and physical attraction? It isn't that Dennis isn't trying. He does his best, I'm sure, but his limits in this department are, I fear, significant. If only Peter Coleman-Wright were a tenor...

Otello

Presumably we have Simone Young to thank for the presence of a Harry Kupfer Otello in Opera Australia's repertory — another reason for me to regret not having lived here during her ill-fated tenure with the national company. Simone fascinates me, if for no other reason than that I've heard story after story but never actually seen the woman in action. My own fault actually, since I know she's appeared with the SSO since I've been here.

Anyway, returning to the matter at hand. Otello opened last Friday and it's fantastic. It makes me want to take Elke Neidhardt to see it (except I suspect she'd be a rather high maintenance concert companion) and say: look, this is how it's done! This is Otello in WWII, in the stately home of a bunch of Fascists. No overdone political statements, though; just an atmosphere of unsettlingly recognisable fear and deception. Setting it here also neatly sidesteps the controversial cosmetics issue: to blackface or not to blackface?

Jonathan Summers is much too convincing as a Nazi. Charismatic and terrifying. Peter Coleman-Wright was originally scheduled to sing Iago in this production, and while that would have been good to see, I'm slightly glad it turned out this way — Summers is amazing, quite frankly. Although I had to stifle a giggle when he turned, and it struck me that in profile he bore a striking resemblance to Master Braun. (If you don't want to click the link — it's Peter Cook. As a German villain. A la Thunderbirds. Enough said.)

Also, two pleasant surprises and both them were tenors. I confess I have been complaining for months about the casting of Dennis O'Neill as Otello. Look, I don't doubt his Verdi tenor credentials. But he seemed strained to me in Un ballo in maschera and Otello is an even bigger sing than that. Besides which — I know we don't really approve of casting looks before talent, but there is a certain level of credibility which I think is not unreasonable. Dennis is short and portly and mostly "acts" by shaking his fist at the heavens. Never good, but especially not with Cheryl Barker as his Desdemona. Cheryl who is willowy and gorgeous and a very good actress. My thought was: this will never work. When I saw them together in Il trittico it actually took me a good ten minutes to realise he was the love interest and not her father. However. It does work. He sings the hell out of it in fact, and the height thing isn't much of an issue — the set, a massive staircase, seems made for him. No, he still can't act, and this does hurt the chemistry with Cheryl a bit, but not much. She's actress enough to make up for him. And did I mention he sings the hell out of it? I was very impressed.

The other surprising tenor was Kanen Breen. Every time I've seen Kanen of late, he's seemed to get less audible and more irritating and again — me and my prejudices — I thought casting him in BIG Verdi was surely an error. Imagine my surprise to find that I could hear him!  And he sounded really quite good! I didn't buy him as a man who'd be promoted over fierce, stocky little Otello but it was just so nice to enjoy his voice again. After all, Kanen Breen used to be one of my favourite OA regulars. Maybe he will be again.

A question now for Opera Australia. When, in the name of all that's holy, will you get a clue and cast Jacqueline Dark in a leading role? Maybe it's just me, but it does seem a little odd that probably the loveliest lyric mezzo in the company is getting handed nothing but bit parts. I thought Suzuki was a thankless role, but Emilia trumps it. Yet in that final scene, where at last she has more than a couple of words to sing, Jacqui suddenly unleashes this torrent of fabulous, exciting singing which makes you think you could start another opera right here.

Oh. Cheryl Barker is in this opera too. No wonder Otello is jealous. So would you be, if you were Mickey Rooney married to Ava Gardner. There's a worldliness about Cheryl's Desdemona which appeals to me: she's as in love with her husband's status and power (and its reflection upon her) as she is with the man himself. That makes her downfall even more tragic, because she isn't just a weak girl crushed by larger powers, she's a self-aware woman whose carefully built world is suddenly destroyed. Without Otello she has no safety net. It's not cowardice which leads her to wait for him to murder her. She depends on his life force for her own existence, even if that dependence kills her. "Egli era nato per la sua gloria, io per amarlo e per morir" — "He was born for glory, I to love him and to die." She attributes the words to pathetic Barbara but they're plainly her own. Her singing is drop dead gorgeous as usual. Fiery and brilliant from start to finish; I didn't know she had such shimmery pianissimi in her, either. And a fabulous high A# in the final scene, which she nails while running into Emilia's arms — nicely done, Cheryl.

There's something trivial I'm wondering, though. If anyone out there saw this production in 2003 — did Elena Prokina (who I understand was amazing) have slightly broader shoulders than Cheryl? I mean it in the nicest possible way; it's just that as lovely as Cheryl is in all her costumes, some of them don't seem to fit perfectly, especially the purple dress.

I'm booked for another two performances. I only didn't book more because I thought I might not be up to sitting through the boys again and again while waiting for Cheryl. Now that that's clearly not the case, I suspect three will not be enough.

Luck

"Cheryl Barker recital"
"Cancellation due to illness"

Two phrases which, in combination, should spell misery and deep disappointment. I expect circumstances to conspire against me when it comes to singers. If there's a bug to be caught, my soprano will catch it. Not that it has happened so very often — but the few cancellations I've been through have traumatised me enough to make me live in terror of a repeat. The sight of Adrian Collette edging his way on to the opera theatre stage before a performance causes my little heart no end of palpitations. When he showed up before an Arabella, I was stricken; when I was assured it wasn't Cheryl who was sick, I cried real tears of relief.

So imagine my joy and delight to find that for once, illness and consequent cancellation were to work decidedly in my favour.

On Monday I went to a recital at Angel Place by Cheryl Barker, Peter Coleman-Wright and Piers Lane. We were told beforehand that Peter was singing through a nasty cold. He coped quite remarkably, but there was no doubting he was not a well man. Evidently the cold got worse. The trio was due to repeat the programme last night. I, being me, had tickets for both. And on Thursday morning I had the news, from a colleague very much In The Know that Peter had been obliged to cancel his appearance in the second recital. How would the gap be filled. "Piers will play more. And Cheryl will sing more." [emphasis mine, clearly]

Never in a million years would I wish ill health upon the charming Peter Coleman-Wright. But unexpected extra Cheryl Barker? Yes, thanks, I'll wish for that.

From there my good fortune spread. I had a seat in the second row, right at the far edge of the theatre. But my section of the row was unoccupied and I was able to move to an aisle seat, with not a single head blocking the way between myself and Cheryl. Even when, during intermission, the person whose seat I had stolen turned up, he was more than happy for me to keep it. There was even a woman handing out free chocolates at intermission.

None of the above compares, however, to the supreme felicity of simply hearing Cheryl Barker sing. In the end, her bonus tracks amounted to just two extra Lieder at the begining and a different encore; but what happy bonuses they were. Just for me — or so I choose to think — she opened with my favourite Schubert song, an ardent "Gretchen am Spinnrade". I have a history of obsession with this song. I love it. I especially love "und ach...sein Kuss!" and shan't soon forget the exquisite anguish in Cheryl's voice as she reached that crucial moment, und ach...the way she lingered and lingered on that final "sssss"! Swiftly on Gretchen's heels, another big favourite of mine — Schumann's divine "Widmung", fabulously sung. Be still, my beating heart.

Naturally we were denied the duets by Mendelssohn and Schumann which were sung on Monday. Piers Lane filled the gap. Just to add to my run of luck, he played Liszt's transcription of the slow movement of Beethoven 7, followed by Schumann's Variations upon that same slow movement. Beethoven 7 is a current mild fixation of mine and thus one of the pieces of music I was most inclined to hear.

Cheryl returned with the same solo bracket she'd sung on Monday. Five songs by Richard Strauss. If you're me, which you mightn't be, but which I definitely am, there's really not much in life better than a crazily gorgeous soprano singing Strauss from just a few metres away. All of them songs I already knew and loved, chosen perfectly for me and for her voice.

In "Cäcilie" I expected a sort of desperate hunger — "if only, if only" and so forth. But both the poem and Strauss' setting of it, as Cheryl explained in her lovely spoken introduction, were love tokens. Strauss gave the song to scary Pauline the night before their wedding. So Cheryl took it in this spirit, made it a jubilant affair, an expression of longing very shortly to be fulfilled. From expansive rapture to perfect serenity — "Morgen". It's a song like no other, except perhaps its cousins, the Four Last Songs. She was devastatingly gentle, floating down to a soft, soft landing before moving on. When she did move on, it was to "Wiegenlied", which on Monday she had dedicated to her son. Again, magnificent. Not that I would dream of sleeping while somebody was singing like this to me. She flitted, flirted and fluttered her way through the romantic antics of "Ständchen", her instinctive gift for acting illuminating the little scene perfectly. And then came the clincher. "Allerseelen". Of the five, this was the song I was least familiar with, though I've heard it from time to time. I didn't know exactly what it dealt with until Cheryl explained. Then, when she sang, and the remains of my high school German went to work, I understood. On Monday it was amazing. On Thursday it truly tore me apart. She sang this in a manner more akin to a grand scena than an art song and the result was extraordinary. She sang "Stell auf dem Tisch die duftenden Reseden", and I saw the table and the flowers; and saw her see them. When she reached the song's stricken climax, her body bent with the pain of it. It was a moment apart; no plots, props or costumes but as characterful and moving as anything I've seen her do on the operatic stage.

Thanks heaven for intermission. I needed a chance to recover. That was followed by more Piers, Brahms this time. Then Cheryl, with an abbreviated version of Songlines of the Heart's Desire, a song cycle written for Cheryl and Peter by Richard Mills and receiving its premiere on this tour. Maybe it is a terrible thing to say, but I liked the Thursday version better. The songs are attractive enough if not masterpieces, but there was bit of sameishness in hearing eight of them together. Honestly, what I liked best about them was not the songs themselves but the way they made Cheryl sound. True to form, her voice was growing warmer and brighter as the evening progresses, and the wide-ranging but perfectly tailored writing of Mills' songs made for some truly wonderful Cheryl moments. I'm pretty sure (correct me if I'm wrong) that one of the three songs she sang on Thursday ("My woman's transparency") was actually one of Peter's from Monday. She also pulled off a nice version of the final duet, sans partner.

On Monday night, they finished with two duets from Kurt Weill's (justifiably) little known operetta about Benvenuto Cellini, The Firebrand of Florence. The first, "You're far too near me", is a dialogue and would be impossible to do solo. Not so the second, so Cheryl gave us a passionate rendition of the slightly treacly "There'll be life, love and laughter" — not Weill's best moment, and definitely not Ira Gershwin's either, but as stated, All Cheryl is Good Cheryl. She followed with another Weill song, one she and Peter had sung as their encore on Monday — "Mackie Messer". Yes, Mack the Knife, sung with a very Weimar mix of seductive insouciance and black-hearted snarl. Without making too much effort to scale back the operatic scope of her voice, she nonetheless fell beguilingly into the cabaret idiom. I'd love to hear her in more of this sort of music.

Her encore was a surprise. I saw the disintegrating piece of sheet music brought to the piano and thought, what on earth can this be? It was Edward Charles' "When I have sung my songs". A parlor song, not that you'd have known it from Cheryl's searing, heartfelt delivery, which raised what could have been a little bit twee to a credo on the level of "Vissi d'arte". She's magic that way.

Once, twice, six times a goddess

I am not falling into my old habits, traipsing across countries or oceans at the drop of a hat in mad pursuit of Australian sopranos. I'd have been happy with my five Sydney Arabellas but since the opportunity of a sixth in Melbourne was offered, I was of course delighted by the prospect. There is no such thing as too much Cheryl Barker. Nor, for that matter, is there such a thing as too much Arabella — at least not this Arabella. John Cox's production is just as endearingly elegant in either setting. The principal cast is thankfully unchanged, which has meant double duty for a couple of the singers — Milijana Nikolic and Lorina Gore sang Adelaide and Fiakermilli respectively on Friday night, then Ulrica and Oscar the following afternoon, a feat for which I most definitely doff my non-existent hat.

The performance I saw was the last of the run. It seems my timing was just right — as I understand it, Peter Coleman-Wright was announced on opening night as singing through a chest infection and subsequently cancelled the next three performances. His cover was Warwick Fyfe, and I concede that, while Warwick's far from a favourite of mine, I can actually see him making quite an effective Mandryka — but the dizzying chemistry of Cheryl and Peter could not, I think, be recreated with half the partnership missing. And since that electricity is one of my favourite aspects of this Arabella, I'm very grateful indeed that Peter was back in health and on stage, as buoyant and teddybearish as ever.

Cheryl Barker was exquisite because she is always exquisite, because being exquisite is what being Cheryl Barker means. No change there, except in the details — no two of her Arabellas have been exactly the same, she is a living, breathing character whom Cheryl creates afresh with each performance. As ever — in Arabella and elsewhere — her voice grew warmer, more expansive, more secure and more enthralling as the evening progressed. She has nailed this role; I hope for the world's sake she's given opportunities to sing it elsewhere.

Failing that, let's just keep her singing it here forever. I'd happily let her lissome, spine-shivering singing keep right on sending me a little further round the bend with every phrase. By the time she says, with perfect coquetry "die drei sind lustiger" I'm already half gone, and at that point we've barely begun. I don't need to point out the aching beauty of the duet with Zdenka; if you don't feel it, then you've a heart of stone which no amount of pointing out could fix. Her "Mein Elemer" is a quicksilver tour de force. "Und du wirst mein Gebieter sein", well, I've already waxed lyrical about this —  Peter and Cheryl in duet radiate true love, vocally and physically, with a sincerity almost too potent to bear. She handles the Act Three confrontation with clarity, passion and towering dignity, a commanding presence and yet delicate, lovable and so, so, so beautiful. From opening night in Sydney to closing night in Melbourne, all this has been true of Cheryl throughout; but then, that's just what she does. She's Cheryl. (I'm mad about her. Is it obvious?)

Production, cast, consuming gorgeousness of Cheryl, all this was unchanged. One thing, however, was very, very different in Melbourne — the choice of tempi. I heard Lionel Friend conduct the opera once here in Sydney, when Richard Hickox was home with a virus. There, he was a proxy Hickox. In Melbourne, he is his own man and his conception of this opera is markedly different. This was fast. Sometimes pleasingly so; sometimes not. In parts, Friend's lightning dash did a nice job of draining off a bit of excess syrup (though I don't find this opera as saccharine as some do) and there were times his zippy recitatives did aid the pacing of the piece. All in all, though, he was too fast for me. A good portion of the glow of Arabella emanates from its ecstatic dwelling on gorgeous melodies, and I think it's okay to allow to just sit and radiate for a little while, no need to keep pressing on and on. Not that he denied us all luxury, not at all — but nevertheless I couldn't help but feel a certain impatience simmering beneath even the most drawn out passages.

The other issue with this fast forwarded Arabella — more obvious to me because I had the performances under Hickox for comparison — was its detrimental effect on the staging. Everything was happening faster, which meant that the carefully measured stage business which seemed so well matched to Hickox's performances, now appeared rougher and more rushed. There was a moment when Zdenka had to blurt a final line more or less over her shoulder, just to get off the stage in time. Arabella re-entered the room while the door was still swinging shut behind Matteo. I think Theodor was singing about his bills before even looking at them. And the depictive Act Three prelude turned from fervent to chaotic; evidently Hickox and Friend have very different visions of Zdenka's First Time. The change of pace, while awkward, isn't ever vastly problematic, and if, like a sane person, you've only seen the production in one city or t'other, I don't suppose it's a problem at all. Having seen it at both speeds, though, I can say I absolutely prefer the slower version, both musically and theatrically. Still, I'm pleased to have heard both, as there was much to love in Friend's reading and in the fluid, fabulous playing of Orchestra Victoria, ably assisted by a far kinder acoustic than that of the Opera Theatre.

And it seems I was not the only blogger making the Sydney-Melbourne Arabella road trip.   Marcellous was there too, and his post makes more detailed mention of the brisker tempi — apparently Friend's reading of the score took about fifteen minutes off Hickox's time, which seems a pretty significant difference. Marcellous attended the same performance I did, which does make me wonder if he might perchance be the distinctively dressed gentleman whom I often see at concerts and opera here and whom I also happened to spot filing into the State Theatre on Friday night. But no, I suppose that kind of coincidence only happens in opera, not in real life. 

More on Arabella (what else did you expect?)

The other women of Arabella

I did say in my first Arabella post that I would save comment on the singers-who-aren't-Cheryl for my review, but (as is my wont and my prerogative) I have changed my mind. Having spent two evenings and a matinée with them, a few among them deserve further attention; not to mention a bit of the uncritical adoration which this forum allows.

Lorina Gore is a blinding revelation to me. Though Fiakermilli is her Opera Australia début, I have heard her once before — as Norina in NZ Opera's touring Don Pasquale. As I recall, I was about the only person not to give her a total rave; I found her pretty and polished but not phenomenal. Fiakermilli is another story; whether the transformation owes itself to her own artistic and vocal progress, to the different repertoire, to the change in venue, or to all or none of the above — or whether it's just me, being my usual capricious self — I've no idea. But a transformation it certainly is, and she well nigh knocked my socks off on opening night. Here, operagods be praised, is the kind of full voiced, ringing, precise and genuinely virtuosic coloratura I've found disappointingly lacking from Opera Australia. Not an overpushed soubrette, not an agile but essentially lyric voice; she's the stuff of which Zerbinettas are made — indeed, having discovered she's out there, I'm keener than ever for an Ariadne. I wish she'd sung Olympia in last year's Hoffmann; and I hope Opera Australia plans to take sensible but full advantage of her talent, which is a rare one among their current stable.

I have already lamented the paucity of opportunities to hear Jacqueline Dark in this city. The fortune teller is another too small role but at least it affords a reasonable opportunity to hear her at full throttle, and I'm increasingly aware of what a pleasure this is. What impressed me in her Tisbe impresses me here too, which is that underpinning the rather gorgeous voice is a real idiomatic intelligence, an understanding of style and of phrasing. She struck me in Cenerentola as one of the few who knew how to make her recitative as lyrical and expressive as her arioso and her ensembles; how to integrate it into the musical whole, rather than chopping it up with the mannerisms of speech. In Arabella she carries those long, long Strauss lines exactly where they need to go without glossing over the details; we can enjoy the dialogue between her and Adelaide while simultaneously enjoying the opportunity Strauss offers to bask in two contrastingly lovely mezzo voices.

Which brings me to the other mezzo of Arabella, the ever more significant Milijana Nikolic. Every role I hear Milijana in leaves me more impressed by her — a real dramatic mezzo with the vocal heft, the range of colours and the versatile, vivid stage presence to do justice to the roles which should become her bread and butter. From a genuinely terrifying Zia Principessa, to a ghostly yet imposing Mother of Antonia, to a toweringly seductive Venus and now a hilarious and adorable Adelaide — she's fast becoming a very important part of the company, and I look forward to more and more and more of her. As I think we've already discussed in the comments elsewhere, Opera Australia looks to be doing Aida next year, and I can think of no better Amneris among the company.

And, just briefly, the one-and-only Arabella of Arabella

Fear not, you shan't have reprise of my last paean just yet. However I did my (delectable) duty post-matinée on Saturday, and queued in the foyer to have my programme signed by divine Cheryl Barker. Who arrived, let me add, in full Act Three costume — she only had twenty minutes to get from curtain call to signing session. We're talking lavish and lacy Viennese ballgown, hoop skirt and all, and flowers in her hair. She looked like a dream, was delightful to speak with, and I'm crazier about her than ever. She was also signing at the ABC Shop in the QVB today, so I hope some of the Cherylites reading this blog managed to take advantage of one (or both!) of these chances to enter the the radiant Presence Of.

Bella

I have the following problems with Cheryl Barker —

Strauss is eye-closing music, but I couldn't close my eyes to Cheryl's Arabella if I tried.

She keeps going blurry at just the moments I most wish to see her clearly. Curse you, tear glands!

She's messing with my senses. Peripheral vision — gone. It takes real effort to see what's around her. Sense of hot and cold — hard to tell, what with all the goosebumps, etc. Sense of hearing — is the famously consumptive audience actually coughing less? Or am I just oblivious? Oh, and rationality is shot too. On Saturday afternoon I will spend three hours looking mostly at a wall, perhaps the odd glimpse of stage; I appear to be happy and excited about this.

The operas she sings in end.

I came to her first Arabella already besotted. I expected the greatest of great things from her. I expected absolute gorgeousness. I expected a three dimensional and utterly believable Arabella for whom I could instantly fall head over heels. I expected that voice which is oh-so-Cheryl and oh-so-thrilling to be in full bloom and knock me over. It's difficult to imagine higher expectations than mine; so how, exactly, did she manage still to surpass them? Or perhaps I mean, to transcend them. She was all the above but more importantly, she was Cheryl and she was Arabella. If singing opera is just a job, she did her job to perfection; if it is an art then she is an artist of the first magnitude.

Little things mean a lot. She is supremely talented at pretending to look out a window. She colours the word "nein" during the lead-in to her duet with Mandryka in a way which manages, in one syllable, to express the entire character and emotional life of Arabella. When others are singing to her, she doesn't "react", she actually reacts, word by word, phrase by phrase. It is an actual conversation. She twirls gorgeously on the dance floor. Her voice blazes brighter the deeper in love she falls and when she reaches that final, crucial phrase — "Take me as I am" — it's a wonder the theatre doesn't just come crashing down. If we clapped hard enough, it might. We did try, I think. I did. (But they discourage long ovations at the Opera House. They bring the curtain down and the house lights up and give you no choice but to shut up and go home.)

And while I do not for a second doubt her acting abilities, it adds to the moving splendour of it all that she is actually in love with her Mandryka, and he with her. Husband and wife on stage together does not in and of itself guarantee electricity, but in this case, it's most definitely there. Never more so than in their Act Two duet. They pledge undying love to one another. Still in character, but with such palpable sincerity and affection that it seems almost intrusive to sit there and witness it. It's a moment of almost unbearable (and thus, completely and wonderfully bearable) beauty. Intense, but tranquil and assured; quite unforgettable.

The me of this moment would like to reach back in time and smack the me of October 2006 around the head, for hearing her Jenufa and not immediately feeling her exquisite power. I'm making up for it now, and then some. I cannot believe my luck — our luck — to have such a luminous and fascinating artist practically at our doorstep and fulfilling dream after dream. Just for now, forget I'm a foreigner and let me be Australian, so that I can say with pride: Cheryl is ours, and we adore her.

Senza Cheryl (io son morta)

As a gift to myself, I went to a third Il Trittico last night. Let me put that another way — I went to see Cheryl Barker a third time. An excursion which yielded a number of results.

A catastrophe. She cancelled. There was no Cheryl. Nicole Youl sang Giorgetta and Angelica, and Hye Seoung Kwon was Lauretta.

A supplementary catastrophe. This was the broadcast. I had somebody organised to capture it, so that I would have a record of Cheryl's triple triumph for all eternity. As it turned out, the somebody forgot to record it. Nevertheless, what a shame.

A silver lining. I don't respond well to cancellations. They upset me. But the experience did at least re-affirm and deepen my adoration of Cheryl, which is no bad thing. Absence makes the heart grow stronger, even if it does also break it a little.

A mystery. Who in the world is Carlo Barricelli and why has he been given the last two performances of Trittico and, as far as I can see, nothing else this season or next? He sang Luigi, Dennis O'Neill having finished his run with the previous performance. Out of nowhere, here was this swaggering, thoroughly Italianate voice, coupled with a far more convincing stage presence — why in the world wasn't he given more performances to sing? My first thought was: who is this guy? My second: he must be Italian, or he's at least studied there. My third: he's been listening to his predecessors, Corelli et al. I got home and looked him up — he's Italian-Australian and, yes, studied in Italy. With Corelli. Voilà.

A reassurance. It's hard to enjoy an understudy on her own merits when you're tearfully (yes, really) longing for the scheduled star. But, having missed her in Trovatore, at least now I know Nicole Youl will be very good in Ballo.

Just quietly. Hye-Seoung Kwon probably makes a tiny bit more sense as Lauretta. BUT I'd still rather have Cheryl in the role, because she's Cheryl.

Anticipation. I'm not risking — nor can I afford — another attempt to see Cheryl in Trittico. So now I wait until October 18th, when she sings Agnes in Isaac Nathan's Don John of Austria at Angel Place. After that, nothing until 2008 — but then, at least, there's Cheryl aplenty. 

Il Trittico

Last week I went twice to Opera Australia's Il Trittico — a refreshing pleasure after almost a month of the relentless quasi-modernism and declamatory realism of A Streetcar Named Desire. Whereas Streetcar might not even really be an opera, Trittico simply oozes all that's operatic — red blooded Mediterraneans, besotted young lovers, knives and disguises and family shame. Everything conventionally operatic is thrown somewhere into the Trittico mix, and even if convention sometimes becomes caricature, it remains a rewarding and mostly engaging experience. Moffatt Oxenbould's colourful and robust production dates back to 1973. All in all it has aged well, mostly because it's so wholly traditional — there are no modern quirks or topical eccentricities here, nothing to upset even the most conservative opera-goer. That literal and unchallenging approach may disappoint some; it's true the dark depths of Il tabarro and Suor Angelica are left largely unplumbed, and Gianni Schicchi, though consistently amusing, offers little in terms of real comic invention. But in a work such as Il Trittico, such deeper exploration is really an optional extra. When it's well executed — as this production most definitely is — straightforward conventionality remains a valid and successful option.

Of the three operas, I was (and still am, really) least familiar with the melodramatic but haunting Il tabarro. While Suor Angelica and Gianni Schicchi both offer resolution of sorts, Il tabarro ends on a powerfully unresolved note; ends, in a sense, at its beginning. Musically, I found it the most appealing of the three —  the effect partly of novelty, I'm sure, but also of its evocative and varied score. The prelude which opens the opera is a particularly delicate piece of scene setting; Giorgetta's impassioned tribute to her home village and Michele's lament at the deterioration of their marriage are both beautifully poignant; and the brief quotation from La bohème is a gorgeous comic touch. Suor Angelica is a rather more slow moving and static opera but in its own way at least as moving. Opening with a radiant and beatific offstage Ave Maria, the music steadily grows in intensity, as the innocent chattering of the novices gives way to Angelica's torment and eventual ecstasy. Last of the three is the rather silly Gianni Schicchi, insubtantial but charming in its way. Musically, its greatest attraction is probably the chance to hear the impossibly over-exposed "O mio babbino caro" in context for once; it also offers something relatively rare in Puccini, a star vehicle for both baritone (Schicchi) and comic mezzo (Zita) while lyric soprano Lauretta, despite getting the best tune, is relegated to a relatively minor role.

Of course, each opera stands perfectly well on its own. But Opera Australia's production offers a wonderful unifying thread — the utterly beautiful Cheryl Barker, who sings all three heroines. It's no easy task she's taken on; these three women pose, both together and separately, a variety of vocal and psychological challenges. But if anybody's up to it, Cheryl is. She is an extraordinarily lovely chameleon, inhabiting each of these three very different roles with grace, authority and thrilling vocal command. She is a vivid and touching Giorgetta, slicing through layers of orchestration while maintaining sweetness of tone; the role also shows off nicely her rather seductive lower register. As Angelica she is electrifying and deeply moving; the prolonged suicide scene is beautifully difficult to bear. Finally, as pretty little Lauretta, she is adorable, a surprisingly convincing teenager after the dark veined maturity of the previous acts. Her "O mio babbino caro" provides the highlight it should, though it's almost bettered (to my mind, at least) by her ensemble singing, especially in duet with Henry Choo's Rinuccio. The role's only drawback is its brevity — Lauretta is allowed far less time on stage than the glorious Cheryl deserves.

Alongside Cheryl is another singer who appears in all three roles, mezzo soprano Elizabeth Campbell. Her triple star turn, if perhaps marginally less arduous than Cheryl's, is nonetheless mightily impressive — she's marvellous as the eccentric Frugola in Il tabarro, a stern Abbess in Suor Angelica and, best of all, a wickedly funny Zita in Gianni Schicchi. Baritone Jonathan Summers appears twice — he's an intense (if occasionally slightly strained) Michele in Il tabarro, but scores his real triumph in the title role of Gianni Schicchi. Dennis O'Neill sings with lyrical majesty as Luigi in Il tabarro, though he's rather difficult to credit as a love interest for Giorgetta. Milijana Nikolic is absolutely terrifying in Suor Angelica as La Zia Principessa, her deep, commanding mezzo and wide-ish vibrato ideal for the role. Henry Choo makes a very sweet Rinuccio in Gianni Schicchi, his "Firenze e come un albero fiorito" providing one of the evening's brightest non-Cheryl vocal highlights. Other highlights include, in Suor Angelica, Dominica Matthews' warmly sung Monitress, the excellent Rosemary Gunn as Mistress of the Novices and Hye Seoung Kwon's sparkling Genovieffa; an impressive cameo from Andrew Moran as the lawyer in Gianni Schicchi and an appallingly funny performance from Shane Lowrencev in the same opera, as a thieving, good-for-nothing  Betto di Signa.

Maestro Licata draws a generally cohesive and expressive performance from the AOBO. I might have wished for just a touch more heavy tragedy in Suor Angelica — a slightly slower tempo in "Senza mamma" would afford Cheryl's gift for Puccinian despair even more opportunity to devastate. But Il tabarro is perfectly measured and atmospheric, quiet and subtle to begin with and building powerfully to its frightening and tragic conclusion; and Gianni Schicchi maintains an effervescent comic bounce. Together, the trio covers practically the whole Puccini spectrum — a varied evening. It's also a long one. But with so much on offer, there's bound to be something in Il Trittico to capture the imagination of just about anybody. Opera Australia's appealing production adds one especial attraction, in the form of Cheryl Barker. High drama, broad comedy, big, expressive music and a soprano showcase  — what more could you want?

Rusalka

My expectations, I'll admit right now, were shamefully low. And I have no decent or reasonable explanation for this — well, not really. Mostly it was on account of the dire ENO Rusalka I watched on TV a while back. Nothing about that production made me want to like the opera and I really didn't relish the prospect of returning to it. I included it in my subscription in part to make sure I felt obliged to go. Neither did the Opera Australia cast set my heart aflame. I've made my distaste for Rosario La Spina pretty clear already; and since her Jenufa — even though it was fine — I've been having rather uncharitable thoughts about Cheryl Barker and didn't expect to be bowled over by her Rusalka.

I wasn't wrong on every count — but I was certainly wrong on enough of them to make last night a truly magnificent experience. First things first — the music itself, which I adored, and I didn't think I would. I remember last time thinking the whole opera just sounded like a two-and-a-half hour extended remix of the Song to the Moon. Which, yes, it kind of does. But now that Wagner-light (or should that be Wagner-leit?) aspect appeals to me much more than it did and I like the musical world which those recurring themes create. Though the constant "Here comes Rusalka, get out your harp" moments do become a bit comical. And of course Dvorak does something which I always love composers for — follows the big hit aria not with a big conclusive bang, but with music which prevents those people from clapping and spoiling the flow. Obviously I don't know the opera well enough to say much about the orchestra under (him again) Richard Hickox — but what I do know is that they all played gorgeously enough to change my mind, which is something in itself.

And Cheryl. I take back everything I thought. Once she gets going, this woman is sensational. It was announced before the curtain rose that she had been suffering from bronchitis and asked for our understanding. To begin with it seemed to me the bronchitis had no effect, she just sounded pretty much as she had in Jenufa. As an actress she was brilliant — unequivocally the star even while her character remained silent — and she looked drop dead gorgeous, but the singing to me was unremarkable, her voice expressive enough but possessing no particular individuality or distinctive beauty. Then Rusalka drank her potion and was mute. And when, in Act Two, she finally spoke again — Cheryl's true voice returned too, in all its high voltage glory. Her Rusalka became as aurally fascinating as she was visually and dramatically, slicing vividly through the sometimes very thick orchestration but retaining all the aquamarine loveliness you could wish for from your not-so-little mermaid. She's won me over.

Not so her Prince, but that's hardly a surprise. Rosario La Spina sings the whole thing as if it's Puccini, and not even good Puccini at that. Most of the music he approaches like a crossover "tenor" and when it's too big for that type of sound, he shouts at approximate pitch instead. Supposedly royal, he displays not one shred of princely dignity — when following the Foreign Princess along the red carpet he actually managed to stand on her dress. The Prince was never destined to be a very sympathetic figure but his is so utterly lacking in any kind of human credibility as to render Rusalka's sacrifice quite incomprehensible — only Cheryl's magic performance keeps it believable.

Elsewhere in the cast, however, the standard is reassuringly higher. Elizabeth Whitehouse is majestic as the Foreign Princess, filling the opera house with a huge flood of sound in a way I've never experienced before. A sort of voice one feels surrounded by, and remarkably fresher and more overwhelming than her Kostelnicka which was in itself a triumph. The Princess' place in the story should be roughly that of the Baroness in The Sound of Music but I liked her. (Actually I like the Baroness too.) I wished she could band together with Rusalka and leave the Prince alone with his ego. Another standout for me was Sian Pendry — a Young Artist this year — as the Kitchen Boy. I don't think every singer would make a star turn out of this role but she did; I suspect she may prove a mezzo to be reckoned with. Bruce Martin is an excellent Water Sprite, a grounded, rough edged voice among all the soprano radiance.  Though with his endlessly repeated "Alas! My poor, pale Rusalka" he began to remind me of the Greta Garbo's unbelievably irritating father in Anna Christie, who talks about "'dat old devil sea" until you just want to push him into it. But I digress. Anne-Marie Owens' Jezibaba was slightly patchy but mostly fine —  I sound like a weather report — but with a bit too much vibrato and too little pure evil for me. The Wood Nymphs were adorable in their mini skirts (yes) and boots (yes) dancing a quasi-Macarena (yes) while they sang their opening trio.

Olivia Fuchs' production is the kind which will appeal to some and utterly repel others. She rejects the story as a fairytale and re-casts in much starker and more abstract form. Not much of a set — basically an empty stage with a tiny circular pond in the centre and dotted with the odd block of ice, all of it colourless, variously lit in vivid blues, reds and silvers. The boundaries between land and water are constantly blurred and crossed — it's little wonder Rusalka is such a mess. So far, so good — I liked the icy, eerie atmosphere of it. One problem, however — Jezibaba. She's no longer a witch. She's a stout, scalpel-wielding nurse in a white coat, who enacts Rusalka's transformation on a hospital bed. And takes inappropriately comical glee in the process — so that in what ought to be  a hushed sort of moment, as Rusalka becomes mortal, instead the audience is full of giggles. This Rusalka is being recorded for Chandos; lord knows what listeners to that CD will make of this without a visual reference. I see, vaguely, the rationale behind all this but I think it's very misguided and just a bad decision. A Jezibaba in keeping with the look and feel of the rest of the production would be miles more effective — we're supposed to see cold, clinical evil but what I see is cold, clinical absurdity. Rusalka on crutches in the final act was just foolish. 

Still, even that's not enough to do serious harm to this Rusalka. There are weaknesses, yes — but there are also some serious strengths and it's these which triumph. For me it was bliss to spend an evening just immersed in the complete experience, musical and dramatic, where even the aspects I disliked were at least interesting enough to think about. For once in my life I probably won't go again — not because it doesn't deserve it but because I just don't think I need to; once was richly satisfying enough to last me quite a while.