Prima la musica, poi le parole

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.