Prima la musica

A Week in Paris...

...might ease the bite of it, but if you're here for opera instead of jazz-inflected moping, then Paris doesn't ease up at all. If you're the sort of dedicated maven (or flat-out addict) who can happily spend twenty-eight evenings in a row in the theatre, fair play to you, but the last seven days – in which I saw four operas and a concert – were plenty for me. I still need at least a couple of nights per week devoted to DVDs and cryptic crosswords. And blogging, if I ever get around to it. 

A week ago today, it was Joyce DiDonato's Drama Queens, the concert she's been taking about Europe and the U.S. in conjunction with her latest album. She even wears the frock from the cover – Vivienne Westwood, who else? – and the boys in the band (that's Il Complesso Barocco by the way) sweetly wear red socks to match. No red stockings for the women, though, which as an owner of red stockings myself, and a fan of the Wife of Bath, I was slightly disappointed by. But who needs flamboyant hosiery when there's flamboyant baroque brilliance to be had instead? Misery, rage, jealousy, desperation and even a flash or two of fast and florid joy. Not to mention fast and florid Joyce, who had the capacity crowd at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées utterly in the palm of her hand, from the muted agony of her opening number – Cesti's "Intorno all'idol mio" in all its long, acheing lines – to the rapid fire "Brilla nell'alma", so nice we heard it twice: once in the program proper and then just its da capo, with new ornaments, as one of five encores. She was practically taking requests by the end – "lent ou rapide?" – and I began to wonder if the Parisians, and their trademark rhythmic applause, would ever let her go. 

The next outing was to the Opéra Garnier for a nifty double bill: Zemlinsky's Der Zwerg and Ravel's L'enfant et les sortilèges. All I knew of the latter was one aria, of the former, just its heartbreaking plot. Both were revelations, but especially Der Zwerg: Zemlinsky is just the sort of music I know I love, yet never think to listen to at home, so it was both a luxury and a welcome reminder to hear this dark one-acter, with its kaleidoscope score, in person – and in such an opulent setting. I've visited the Garnier several times but never for a performance and it was completely worth it, fiendishly uncomfortable seats and all.

Actually, discomfort is probably not inappropriate for Der Zwerg, which is not what you'd call a comfortable opera. The production by Richard Jones and Antony McDonald enhanced its heartbreak – and just plain heart – with a deft, sensitive staging. The Dwarf was doubled: Charles Workman in white tie and tails, all silent film handsomeness, controlled a three foot tall puppet. So at every moment we saw him both as the heartless Infanta and her giggling friends saw him – deformed and deluded – and as the dignified, dashing aristocrat he imagined himself to be. In an already excellent production, this was a stroke of genius, and Workman – singing one of the most taxing tenor roles I've ever heard – infused as much touching humanity in the puppet as in his own performance. Special mention also to Nicola Beller Carbone, who captured the Infanta's callous vacuity perfectly while also singing up a storm, and to Béatrice Uria-Monzon, a magnificent Ghita.

As you can imagine, the fantastical silliness of L'enfant was a nice relief for the second half. I was enchanted by the dreamlike production, full of bright colours and surreal images looming suddenly out of the pitch black. I was enchanted, too, by the score, so charming and inventive; the nymphs and shepherds baroque pastiche assigned to the wallpaper particularly appealed to me. There wasn't a name in the cast I recognised, but all were impressive. Among my particular favourites were Amel Brahim-Djelloul, a wonderful silvery prima donna of a Princess, and François Piolet who, among other roles, was hilarious as the Petit Vieillard: in this case a frightening female arithmetic teacher in green leather and spike heels. Gaëlle Méchaly was also a very cute Enfant: imagine Brigitte Fassbaender's Oktavian as a hyperactive eight year old. 

I can't claim to have been as bowled over by the next night's opera, Donizetti's La favorite at the Théâtre des Champs-Elysées. Then again, I didn't expect to be. I was there to hear Alice Coote as Léonor, not as a diehard Donizetti groupie. Hear her I did, and I thought she was pretty marvellous. No, rare bel canto isn't exactly core repertoire for her, and there's no doubt music which shows her off even better, but that's one seriously beautiful – and remarkably powerful – voice she's got, and one always worth seeking out. Ludovic Tézier, although announced as "souffrant" and craving our indulgence, was still a sonorous Alphonse – I doubt I'd have picked him as sick without the announcement – and Marc Laho an admirable Fernand. But the opera, let's face it, is fairly stuffed with clichés, and I fear the production (and inexplicably industrial sets) did little to mitigate this; in fact, dare I say it, it added a few of its own: I don't think anyone delivered a significant line without a bit of purposeful striding and a Dramatic Gesture. Again, though, I was there for Alice, and her final scene – madness, pleading and eventually death – was so blisteringly sung and acted, nothing else really mattered.

A night off, and then something completely different: so different, in fact, that you'd scarcely believe only thirty years separates the two. Yes, as the photo way up there may have hinted, the final dress rehearsal of Die Walküre at the Bastille, the first time I'd seen any of this production. I'd forgotten there were naked people, so that was an interesting surprise, and I was taken aback again by how big the audiences for dress rehearsals here are: this one could almost have passed for a patchily-sold performance. The noise they made at the end of each act could have passed for a sold-out performance: whistles, cheering, that rhythmic applause again – it's one of my favourite things about the French, that applause – and even some stomping of feet. Little wonder. It was a pretty sensational show, with nothing much rehearsal-y about it, and if it's anything to go by – which of course it is – then the season itself is going to be a big one. Watch this space. 

That brings me up to date, just in time before it all begins again on Sunday. So if you'll excuse me, there's a box set of The Mentalist calling my name. 

Khovanshchina

Handel operas have taught me not to worry too much if the plot of an opera is impenetrable on paper. It's usually much clearer when it comes to life. I've not yet had the chance to apply this theory to Meyerbeer's Il Crociato in Egitto, still one of the more confusing operas of my acquaintance – although that's partly because all the characters have names beginning with 'A'– but it was a heartening thought on Friday when I headed into the Opéra Bastille for my first ever Khovanschchina. Attempting to study up on the plot ahead of time would be futile, Twitter had assured me, and even my date – a former Prince Andrei himself – was fuzzy on what it was all about.

Fair enough. I've seen it now, and while I have a vague grasp on the contours of it – Tsar vs Streltsy vs Old Believers – I wouldn't want to be quizzed on the details. In fact I realised fairly early on that life would be much simpler if I just enjoyed Khovanshchina as a series of related historical tableaux rather than one ripping yarn, so that's what I did. Of course, the French-only surtitles did intensify the mental gymnastics of the thing but for the most part I got the gist, if not of the factual intricacies, then at least of the emotions at play: and that's what opera's really about, isn't it? Even the dense historical ones.

Not a huge surprise, then, that my favourite aspect of Khovanshchina was Marfa. Old Believer/fortune-teller/Prince's ex and all round interesting person (oh, and martyr) sung and acted wonderfully by Larissa Diadkova, one of few names in the cast that were familiar to me. Next time, Mussorgsky, consider just writing an opera about her: she's definitely fascinating enough to carry one. Of the names I didn't know, I was especially taken by bass Orlin Anastassov (Dosifei) and baritone Sergey Muzaev (Chakloviti), both of whom sang so fantastically well that even I forgot to mourn the relative dearth of sopranos. Vladimir Galouzine was unflagging, too, as Prince Andrei, even if his wig did make him look like 17th century Russia's answer to Bill Bailey. Gleb Nikolsky, meanwhile, looked every inch the part as Prince Ivan Khovanskhi: bearded, swaggering and apparently about nine feet tall. 

Mussorgsky's score was as swirly and stormy and full of eerie choruses as I expect my Russian opera to be – thanks for your help there, Shostakovich, and yours too, Maestro Jurowski (the elder) – and matched pretty well by Andrei Serban's production, with its menacing slabs of concrete and bleak backdrops brightened only by the soldiers' red coats and a splash here and there of rococo excess. The staging of the final martyrdom-by-fire was especially effective, as the ascetic Old Believers peeled off black robes to reveal white ones underneath, then slowly departed, so that the discarded robes (now being gradually engulfed by smoke and ash) suddenly, and disturbingly, resembled charred remains. 

Precisly what happened in the four hours (including intermissions in an inexplicably freezing foyer) leading up to this funeral pyre, I'm not sure I could say. I know Prince Andrei kept stubbornly proclaiming his love for Emma despite her obvious lack of interest. I know Marfa treated him much better than he'd treated her. I know Khovanskhi was assassinated after partaking of some dancing slaves. And I know that nobody – unseen Tsar included – was very happy about any of the above. Hey, it's Russian opera: the misery (and the music) is what makes it so good. 

One week, two cities, four shows

It's been quite a week...

May 7: Die Walküre at the Met 

Huge success. For everyone, my tenor included. Fabio Luisi had, happily enough, heard my telepathic wish for a slightly slower "Winterstürme", which was a lovely bonus in a generally excellent show. (I mean, it was beautiful the first time round too, but I'm always happy for extra basking time in that aria.) Bryn brought the house down, and rightly so. I was so pleased to have this second chance to see and hear this show – not to mention a second chance to worry needlessly about the Brünnhilde double in the final scene – and to say another quick hello to New York. So quick, in fact, that with the show running until after 11pm, and a cab to the airport arriving at 6.15am – not to mention the small matter of dinner in between – we didn't actually sleep until we were airborne. Not to worry. It was worth all the exhaustion. 

May 10: Véronique Gens at Wigmore Hall

In the last few years it's been quite an extraordinary experience to finally see live performances by the singers who dominated my CD collection for years. I've ticked quite a few of them off the list – more than I could have hoped for in fact – but Véronique had eluded me until last Friday. I could hardly have wished for a more ideal first encounter than this, a recital of French songs. Débussy, Hahn, Chausson and Fauré...are you drooling yet? I was, and with good reason. She was as divine as I imagined she would be – and then she made life even better by singing one of my favourite songs in the world, French or otherwise, as her encore: Poulenc's "Les chemins de l'amour". And while I was still wiping away my tears from that, she followed up with Fauré's "Les roses d'Ispahan", another song to which I have a bit of a sentimental attachment. Thanks for reading my mind so completely, Véronique. 

May 12: La bohème at the ROH

I had no plans to see this while in London because Royal Opera tickets are expensive, the show was pretty much sold out anyway, and besides (pardon the heresy) it's one of my least favourite operas. My plans changed thanks to the unexpected generosity of the lovely Madeline Pierard – New Zealand's Own! – who, as the ROH announced earlier in the day, was going on as Musetta in place of an indisposed Nuccia Focile. So, with permission from you-know-who to ditch that night's performance of Dutchman at the ENO, I took myself to Covent Garden for what turned out to be the best live Bohème of my operagoing career to date. Joe Calleja was a genuinely loveable Rodolfo, to whom I award a special citation for his incredibly upsetting (and totally believable) reaction to Mimì's death; Carmen Giannattasio's oh-so-Italianate Mimì had my attention from note one; and Madeleine was first hilarious and then heartbreaking as Musetta. By the time she reached her prayer in Act IV, I was wished she had a sequel to herself. Rodolfo's bohemian buddies were all very charmingly played too. And as ever, despite earlier hard-heartedness, I succumbed in the end to Puccini's exceptional powers of manipulation and spent the last twenty minutes sniffling along with the rest of the audience.

May 13: Madam Butterfly at the ENO

My favourite Puccini opera. Very nearly my favourite opera. I love it madly. And yes, if I'm honest, I'd probably prefer to hear it in Italian, but it doesn't really matter: that score is what it is, and it makes mincemeat of me no matter what the language. Imprinting and diva worship being what they are, my heart will always belong in the final reckoning to Cheryl Barker and to Moffatt Oxenbould's exquisite Opera Australia production; but I was still enchanted by both Mary Plazas's tiny, porcelain Cio-Cio San and by Anthony Minghella's mesmerising production. And it was just wonderful to see and to hear Pamela Helen Stephen as Suzuki. I last heard her in Australia, when her late and much-missed husband Richard Hickox was chief conductor of Opera Australia. She was lovely then, and she's even lovelier now: a completely captivating Suzuki, which is no mean feat given how little Puccini gives her to work with. The ENO orchestra, who had been playing the living daylights out of Dutchman, were once again sensational, this time under Oleg Caetani. We were close, and it was loud, and I was in heaven. Oh, Cio-Cio San. 

Seeing stars

 

What better way to spend the free night between performances #1 and #2 of Das Lied von der Erde than with a ridiculous French operetta? Hey, if it's good enough for Sir Simon Rattle (who's been conducting both) then it's good enough for me. Besides which, I am a Magdalena Kozena groupie, and it would have been churlish to miss her while we were all in the same city. So it was off to the Staatsoper on another cold Berlin night. And not to Unter den Linden – that venue's currently undergoing major renovations – but to the Schiller Theater in Charlottenburg, the Staatsoper's pleasant (if slightly spartan) temporary home. 

I'm always pleased to see Magdalena, and L'étoile, if you'll pardon the pun, is certainly a nice star vehicle for a mezzo: Lazuli (the pants role) gets more arias than a Handel hero. Seriously. S/he also gets the final bow – but I think it's safe to say that (again, pardon the pun) the evening's biggest star was the desperately funny Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as King Ouf, exploiting his diminutive stature (I never realised he was so little!) to his advantage with dead-on comic timing. 

And for me, the other (triple pun warning) star of L'etoile was Stella. Doufexis, that is. I've known the name from CD covers for a while now, and somehow had got it into my head that she was 1. French and 2. a soprano. Turns out she's 1. German-Greek, 2. a mezzo and 3. wonderful. It was a shame that her character (Aloès) had comparatively little solo singing. Here she is with some Offenbach. If you're at all familiar with my vocal predilections, it probably won't surprise you that she was my favourite. 

 

I can't say I was massively taken with the opera itself. It had its moments of charming French eccentricity, and also moments of proper comedy, but somehow was never quite as kooky or as funny as the set-up (loopy king, confused lovers, comedy Frenchmen and everyone in disguise) suggested it might be. And just as you thought it was about to take madcap flight, Chabrier chose instead to slow everything down, with interminable ensembles which lost momentum about halfway through. Dale Duesing's 1950s hotel setting (with the odd inexplicably anachronistic costume) was very appealing, though, and I am a bit of a sucker for comic opera with choreography. Not sure why the men's chorus broke into a quasi-haka at one point though.

The other highlight for me? The program. I don't often buy programs, I'm afraid, but I was informed that the Staatsoper's were something special. And so they are. They're little hardcover books, nicely bound and beautifully presented: the sort of thing I suspect Frindley would love. Evidently they're famous, so maybe you've all seen them before, but nevertheless here's a not-very-good photo of my program for L'étoile. 

Pretty, isn't it? And half the price, I might add, of Opera Australia's rather less gorgeous publications. It's full of essays (auf Deutsch) which I shall probably never read, but it really is a lovely keepsake.

L'etoile may not be my new favourite opera but I was happy just to experience the (albeit transplanted) Staatsoper for the first time  – not to mention a pretty nifty cast and the sheer thrill of novelty. And now I have a new mezzo to love, which can only be a Very Good Thing.

Lohengrin

Curses, almost a week since Lohengrin opened — with the next show only two days away — and I still haven't written a word about it.

Well, here's one word: magic. 

And here are some more. Opening night was brilliant. I'd been to a few rehearsals, but I'd only ever seen chunks of individual acts. Never the whole show, never with the full setand never with everyone in costume. Such is life in a Wiederaufnahme. I'd never even seen the swan — but that, as it turned out, was a piece of excellent luck. Its arrival was breathtaking, its revelation of the young prince at the end even more so (I cried...) and I was so glad not to have had either surprise spoilt ahead of time.

The set in all its glory is showing its age here and there but this I forgive, given that it's a year and a day older than me. I don't look like I did in 1983 either. It's still very grand and, I have to say, it really is a joy to see an old-fashioned show, with knights in armour and swords and ladies in brocade and all that stuff. After nine months of Wozzecks and non-literal Parsifals, excellent though they've all been, it's nice to spend a little time with a Lohengrin that's jumped straight out of a storybook. 

I wish I could point you to a review somewhere for a (comparatively) unbiased take on the singing, but alas, no critic seems to have seen fit to cover this show yet. What I can say is that Marjorie Owens and Tichina Vaughn both made auspicious débuts as Elsa and Ortrud respectively; that Georg Zeppenfeld is one heck of a King Henry; that Hans-Joachin Ketelsen's Telramund is also mighty; and that The Tenor in my Life surprised even me with his Lohengrin.

So, yes, incredibly partial comments to follow, but: I hang around him every day, and I still have no idea he how sings so gloriously, so powerfully or for so long. And for all the miraculousness of his Parsifals this year (not to mention everything else), I think last Sunday's Lohengrin is basically the coolest, jawdroppingest and most virtuosic bit of singing I've seen him do since Peter Grimes in Sydney two years ago. Biased I may be, but I ain't deaf, and I don't expect ever to hear Lohengrin sung much better than that.

And I must be on to something, because the response which greeted both the cast as a whole and my own Grail Knight suggested everyone else was as impressed as I was. There was massive applause at the end of every act and for every cast member. There was cheering, and foot-stomping, and the first bow of Lohengrin himself sparked a standing ovation which eventually spread throughout the stalls and into much of the upper levels. Erik Nielsen, the excellent conductor who took over at short notice for an indisposed Adam Fischer, also received his share of wild acclaim. 

It was one of those electrically charged evenings, both in silene while the show was in swing and in the clamour when it stopped. All the more impressive when you think that we're talking about a revival which opened on a Sunday afternoon: not exactly a Gala Night. Yet it frequently felt like one. Like I say. Magic.

The Last Savage

Mr. Menotti, my apologies. I should have written about your adorable opera straight away. The Last Savage, which I saw at Santa Fe Opera on Thursday, turned out to be one of the most fun filled evenings I've ever spent at the opera. I love MGM musicals, and this opera looked and felt like an MGM musical — but with even more singing and funnier jokes. The score is good, not great, but Menotti's dramatic instincts are sterling as ever (as were those of conductor George Manahan) and the opera is genuinely entertaining. It definitely deserves better than the obscurity it's enjoyed since its Paris, New York and Venice premieres flopped so resoundingly.

So, the plot, briefly. Kitty is a budding anthropologist from Vassar. Her wealthy father has taken her to India, where he meets the Maharajah and negotiates a marriage between his daughter and the Maharajah's son. Kitty, however, won't marry anybody — or give up anthropology — until she finds the titular "last savage". So a country boy is found to impersonate said savage. It works, but then, because it's opera, everybody starts falling in love the wrong way round and complications ensue, until a G&S-style revelation intervenes to sort everybody out for a happy Ever After. 

You see what I mean. It could easily be an MGM movie. In fact, it probably is, so it was fitting that Anna Christy (Kitty) looked eerily like Jane Powell. She sang, of course, far better — I'm no fan of those tweety Hollywood sopranos — which is fortunate, since the role is full of deliberately over-the-top coloratura. Kevin Burdette channelled that MGM vibe perfectly as well — the man can not only sing (and he sure can sing), he's a first rate comic actor, who stole the show even when standing in the corner of the stage not singing. 

Those two were probably the highest of the highlights, but it's a close call — everyone was beautifully in on the joke, throwing themselves into the madcap fun of the show and singing wonderfully to boot. Daniel Okulitch has far more than just a talent for shirtlessness to recommend him for the role of the so-called savage; Jennifer Zetlan's Sardula was lovely, particular in her rather long, serious aria which calls Leïla's "Comme autrefois" from Pearlfishers to mind; Jamie Barton was a campy delight as the oversized Maharani and the list goes on...truly, there was never a dull nor a disappointing moment. 

The true star of the evening, though? Ned Canty, who's directed a production so bursting with comedy, colour and detail that you'd need to see it three or four times to appreciate the genius of it all. The lion! The whiskey gag! The blink-and-you'll miss it Nixon reference! None of which means anything to you if you haven't seen it! In Canty's hands, this show is as non-stop hilarious as you always wish Figaro was, and it's at least as good looking as anything in Glorious Technicolor. Fabulous costumes, simple yet brilliant sets, and visual gags most directors would kill to come up with. And all of it totally in service of the score. At the end of the evening, my companion was heard to utter "Ned Canty should direct every opera ever." I'd struggle to disagree. 

Now maybe the opera isn't the finest ever, or even Menotti's finest, but I have to say, thanks to Ned Canty, George Manahan and such a supercool cast, I'm convinced that it deserves a higher place in the repertoire. Principal and supporting roles are mostly rewarding — particularly Kitty, her father, and the Maharani; there's lots of fun for the chorus, and the potential for comic gold is huge. The potential for falling flat is thus probably also considerable — the thing did flop, after all, and comedy is hard — but hey, just hire Ned Canty, or clone him, and you're sorted. 

My only regret is that we waited so long to go, and now have no chance to see it again. 

(Photos: Ken Howard/Santa Fe Opera)

Opening Night

And ninety-eight years later, Parsifal in Zürich is still a Very Good Idea. Opening night was a huge success. I loved it more than even the very best of the performances in London — which is saying something. Well done to all concerned. I'm looking forward to the next four. 

From the House of the Dead

Finally, after three weeks in Zürich, we actually went to the opera. I must be getting jaded: I looked at what was on and frankly, Parsifal aside, From the House of the Dead was the only prospect that really grabbed me. I had been half-tempted by the Anna Bolena, but then Elina Garanca pulled out of the last three shows and they replaced it with La bohème, one of my least favourite operas. So this was our first trip. Led by me, it has to be said, as I am definitely the Janáček groupie in this household. (Even though it's the other person in said household who actually sings the stuff.)

Peter Konwitschny's production is, well, weird. The reviews I've read seem divided as to whether it's good-weird or bad-weird. I'm pretty sure it's making some kind of point about the nature of exile or loneliness or isolation or something along those lines. No doubt it's all terribly Brechtian and clever, but I have to confess it passed me by.

Briefly: Siberian prison is replaced with a gentlemen's club, run by the Mafia and lit like a school cafeteria. The play-within-a-play involves writhing by strippers of both genders. The chorus leaves the stage and enters the auditorium at one point, as does a soloist who shouts "lies!" from various boxes, and there's a planted couple in the front row who leave in mock-disgust after playing out some enforced audience participation. There's no wounded eagle; Goryanchikov isn't really released; Shishkov doesn't really recognise Filka. And by the end, all the men are embracing various parts of a giant matryoshka doll. As you do. 

The novelty of the weirdness was intermittently entertaining, at least; Sydney doesn't really do productions like this, although I half suspect that Patrick Nolan's Acis and Galatea was aspiring to the style of this show. Evidently some of the critics were quite struck by Konwitschny's take on it, but personally, I fear I missed the pathos of the only other production I've seen (Chéreau's, on DVD). There, the exiles were, in their shabby way, ultimately sympathetic (or at least pitiable) and there was a glimmer of hope and camaraderie amidst the misery. Call me unimaginative but for me, the self-imposed exile of a cocktail lounge just isn't as touching.

No matter. There's the music, and I'm a Janáček freak, so I was happy. I'd forgotten how much like Makropulos it sounds – and in particular, how much like the glorious final twenty minutes of Makropulos it sounds. You can, as my companion pointed out, play "Janáček Bingo" with it, but that doesn't trouble me; on the contrary, I love the recognisable-yet-different world of this score, with all the tics, tricks and motifs I love, bent to the will of a new story. Soprano fanatic that I am, I'll never love House of the Dead as much as his Kamila operas, but then again, it's not the kind of opera that's asking to be loved, is it? The singing was all good, sometimes very very good indeed. Don't ask me to single out soloists, because I've no idea: it's one of the ensembliest ensemble pieces out there, and not the opera for a baritone or tenor who wants to make a star turn. The Zürich Opera House orchestra played magnificently under Ingo Metzmacher, all shiny strings and creeping percussion. 

Musically at least, I was in Janáček-groupie heaven. Drier-eyed than I might have liked (which was not the case with Chéreau) but satisfied just the same. Next stop: Parsifal, of course.

Photo: Suzanne Schwiertz

Splitsville

I am not Julia Roberts, my life is not a movie (or at least not that movie) and I've never even set foot on Rodeo Drive. But I was flown by my beau from Los Angeles to San Francisco, we did go to the opera and we did sit in pretty impressive (okay, they were amazing) box seats. We did not, however, see a Traviata of Narrative Significance. We saw Vec Makropulos with Karita Mattila. 

Which by any standards is not an evening out to be sniffed at. Karita is an acknowledged superstar. And Janacek is wonderful, or at least I think he is; as keen as I was to see Karita again (I saw her in recital in London four years ago) it was really the prospect of seeing one of my favourite operas — and particularly the last fifteen minutes or so of that opera — which was top of my excitement list. Not to mention Jiří Bělohlávek in charge of the orchestra — he's about as good as it gets in this repertoire; his conducting of the recent live Rusalka from Glyndebourne absolutely (and oh so prettily) steals the heroine's thunder. 

Well, Janáček did not disappoint and nor did Jiří. I found the opera as engaging as ever and those last fifteen minutes reduced me to tears as they always, always do. The amazing seats were indeed amazing, and my encroaching cold (albeit with pharmaceutical help) even let up long enough to let me pretend it didn't exist. (It did.) Olivier Tambosi's staging was clever and visually appealing, occasional weirdness aside, although I still prefer Opera Australia's Neil Armfield production. 

But all of the hype for this show, and I had read quite a bit of it, had centred on one single entity: that glamorous Finn in the lead role. I had read nothing about her but superlatives and undying love: she was perfect, amazing, scintillating, phenomenal, and so on and so on and so on. I heard more of this in the house from fellow audience members too. Thousands of people can't be wrong, and yet I have to say, I didn't quite get it.

There's no doubting her commitment, or the beauty or distinctiveness of her voice, or her textual awareness, or her stage presence — especially the stage presence, which is commanding to a fault. And yet that last degree of engagement was missing for me. She was a platinum vixen of an Emilia, whose irresistibility one could well understand, but then again, this often felt overplayed to me. She could sing gorgeously, though I didn't think she always did so — perhaps this was not her best night — but even at its loveliness, a certain frisson was still absent. I longed for more and darker colours but they didn't come.

Similarly, I longed for more facets to her character, for at least a flicker or two of humanity beneath the bitchy appearance — but that depth, too, never came. Which is, to be fair, probably a valid interpretation of Emilia, although I think the opportunities to show a human side are there, for those inclined to explore them. The last fifteen minutes, where Emilia's carefully tended immortality and composure come crashing down, I found devastating and gorgeous, but mostly on account of the music. I didn't care about Emilia one way or another. I was a bit tired of her. 

Is that terrible of me? I've only found one single solitary person who felt the same away, and everybody else abjectly adored her. Maybe I was just missing something. Well, I know I was missing something; I was missing Emilia, as I've come to understand her. Not just through my Favouritest Soprano Ever, either; both Anja Silja and Elisabeth Soderstrom, for instance, have got through to me in this opera. Karita, much as I have loved her elsewhere, just did not. And I'm worried that her ability to do the splits is becoming a gimmick: it was weird enough in Manon Lescaut but thoroughly unnecessary here. If she works it into Jenufa then I'll know she's flipped her lid. 

The rest of the cast did admirably for the most part. I didn't fall in love with any of them but didn't dislike any of them either. Miro Dvorsky was an affable sort of Gregor, Susannah Biller a sweet, gawky Krista and Gerd Grochowski a suitably patrician Baron Prus. And of course Matthew O'Neill did what I'm sure all tenors singing Hauk-Sendorf do, and briefly stole the show. Hard not to with that first mad scene of his. 

I didn't even have San Francisco in mind when I headed to LA, let alone Janacek, so as itinerary bonuses go, this was a pretty excellent one. I mean, a night with Emilia Marty is always a pleasure, even when she's not my favouritest ever. This opera is probably not the most obvious to fall in love with, and yet love it I do. And even an underwhelming Karita Mattila still beats a poke in the eye with a blunt stick by miles. So while I can't quite fathom the ecstatic praise which was heaped upon this show, I'm still very very pleased we went. 

Not dead yet

No. Believe it or not, I haven't forgotten you. Although at this point, the bigger question is perhaps whether you've forgotten me. I hope not. Anyway, here I am, for once. Possibly not at massive length but something is better than nothing – at least it is for my blogging conscience – so I have at last dredged up something worth writing about.

Dredged may be the wrong verb. As some of you will know from Facebook and/or Twitter, I've been in Los Angeles for the last three weeks. And while much of my time has been devoted to terrible American television (much of it forensic) and a citywide search for burgers, fries and Fifties decor, I've also put in a number of hours watching rehearsals for LA Opera's new Lohengrin, which opened on Saturday night.

Watching a show come together like this has been a mostly interesting, sometimes hilarious and occasionally dull (thank heavens for an iPhone full of games) experience. It's my first time seeing things from this side, and I have to say, the different point of view is fascinating – and makes me doubt my own perceptiveness as a reviewer even more. Well, not exactly. But it is curious to see how differently one perceives the final product when one has seen precisely what's gone into it. Like sausages. In good ways and bad, dare I say.

And since I'm not yet entirely jaded, it's also been pretty wonderful getting to consort with the likes of Ben Heppner, Soile Isokoski, Dolora Zajick and Kristin Sigmundsson. Starry cast, as you can see. Soile Isokoski in particularly has had me quite enchanted; we all know I'm a soprano addict, and while Soile's is not a voice I'd fallen madly for on disc, in person it's heavenly and exactly my cup of tea. She's also just as lovely offstage, which is always a nice bonus. Ben Heppner is, well, Ben Heppner, super cool in all kinds of ways. Kristin Sigmundsson is about ten feet tall and born to sing royalty (he's our King Henry), Eike Wilm Schulte (the Herald) is a model for all singers, still in amazing voice at 71 years of age, and Dolora Zajick's Ortrud is a hurricane or a whirlwind or some other similarly scary force of nature.

I can't say I'm one hundred percent on board with the production concept, which sets the opera in World War I, with Lohengrin as a resurrected amputee soldier with silver prosthetic leg. But I'll leave the dissection or otherwise to those better qualified and/or entitled. Unreserved praise, however, for James Conlon and his orchestra. It's just so nice hearing a great band in a proper pit. Plus Maestro Conlon has quite a way with his Wagner. Not that I have any other live Lohengrin to compare with – indeed this has been more or less my introduction to the opera as a whole – but I have a feeling it was a good way to start.

And while the sheer time I've now spent observing the nitty gritty of the opera means I've probably had my fill of it for the time being – except the second performance, which I'll see next week before flying home – this has still been a pretty excellent (and definitely educational) foray into an opera I previously barely knew, and now wake up humming.

The Turn of the Screw

For all I know it may be sold out already — the venue is small, the season is short, and the show is superb — but just in case, allow me to point you once again in the direction of the Sydney University Opera Company's production of Britten's The Turn of the Screw. I was there on opening night and I was enthralled. The cast is excellent, the orchestra sensational, and Christopher Hay's production is clever and haunting. If Bliss doesn't swallow me whole in the meantime, I might attempt a fuller review next week. For the moment, let me just single out two of the (many) reasons to see this show. One of them is the gorgeous Emma Moore as Miss Jessel: you'd never guess this was her first operatic role ever, she already sounds like a star. Another is the extraordinary Quint of Simon Gilkes, one of those performances you should see now so as to have bragging rights later. He's going places. 

That's just the beginning, though. Everybody involved deserves praise. This is a rich and eerie and altogether quite wonderful Turn of the Screw, and a very auspicious début by this fledgling company. See it if you can. 

Tosca Reconsidered

I was reluctant to see Tosca a fifth time, but then — I swear this is true — my companion played a few bars of the Te Deum on my iPhone's cat piano, and I was persuaded, so up we went to the box office at 7.15pm and snagged a student rush ticket at the front of the stalls. And all in all, I was glad I'd taken the plunge, but I have to be honest: about 90% of the reason for that was John Wegner, both as Scarpia and as himself. 

I fear a little of the shine has worn off this production for me. Opening night was a thrill, the second performance was even better, but since then my feeling for this Tosca have plateaued. And this, above all, was the main reason for my reluctance to come a fifth time. I mean, I don't think Nicole Youl is earthshattering in the title role, but she is very good, and I was quite impressed by her first night. I was curious to see Carlo Barricelli as Cavaradossi, and as mentioned, John Wegner's Scarpia is always a tempting prospect. It was just the thought of going through all that violence and nihilism yet again which I confess dismayed me.

This is not to say that I'm changing my basic opinion of Alden's staging. I'm not taking back my first or second impressions: I'm just adding my fifth impression, which is that this is not a production which necessarily bears repeated viewings within a short space of time. Three was enough, and even two would probably have sufficed, followed by several years before revisiting it. I mean, a huge part of this production's initial appeal was the freshness of it, the radicalness of its departure from Tosca-tradition, and for that reason, I think it works better as a sometime thing than as a weekly habit. 

It strikes me too that while Alden's modernisation frees Tosca from one set of limitations, it establishes another set. For all that he removes, Alden has also added quite a lot to Tosca, in terms of stage business, psychology and the actual make-up of the cast. Lines are reassigned, characters are added and subtracted, and then there's the whole matter of the deaths, none of which happens precisely as the libretto specifies. And I kind of love Alden for doing all of that — I really did enjoy the jolt of all his revisions  — but they limit his Tosca as least as much as, and quite possibly more than, a straightforward staging. Traditional Toscas might have great potential for dullness, but they also, arguably for exactly the same reasons, have the potential to act as blank canvases; it just depends on who's bringing them to life, and how. 

Not that Alden's production is completely rigid, of course; but its flexibility only goes so far. The change from Takesha to Nicole, for instance, has made it clear that there's room for each Tosca to bring elements of her own natural stage personality (if that's not an oxymoron) to the character. Nicole's Tosca is softer and more domestic than Takesha's, and as a result, she's quite engaging in the naturalistic first act. She is also a more conventional Tosca, however: one could imagine her gestures and vocal mannerisms fitting just as easily into a nineteenth century staging. I rather like that about her, and I was surprised, the first time I saw her, by how well that approach held up in this modern setting. But I had the benefit of earlier performances as a template. Taken on its own, I don't know how clearly the more stylised— not to mention completely new — aspects of Alden's Tosca came across without a heroine whose performance was just as stylised and just as palpably modern. 

Carlo Barricelli's Cavaradossi is further proof of some elasticity, I suppose; he's a cheerier and livelier than Rosario La Spina's, and thus quite a different presence on stage. I have to be honest, though: I don't really get the sense that Alden's especially interested in Cavaradossi. He doesn't have a great deal to do, and as long as he remembers not to actually touch Tosca in the third act (where I think he's supposed to already be dead) then it's probably hard for him to interfere much with the Konzept. And John Wegner does seem to be unearthing ever murkier psychological depths within Scarpia, and changing as he goes, but just the same, he's doing so within some pretty definite — if unconventional — boundaries. 

I want to underline again that I'm not seeking to dismiss Alden's Tosca, nor am I siding with those who hated it from the outset. I still think it's pretty excellent, in its dark and harrowing way, and I'm genuinely glad to have seen the opera done this way, especially with such excellent singers involved. As far as this season goes, though, I think Alden's Tosca and I have gone as far as we can. I'm ready for a break, and I'm ready to see Tosca done another way, either with or without the candesticks. 

Oh, and maybe you remember that I mentioned (a million years ago, when this post began) that my ultimate enjoyment of Tosca #5 had something to do with John Wegner as himself, rather than as Scarpia. We went to the stage door afterwards to meet him and have our programs signed. I'm happy to say he's charming, chatty, and at least as awesome as our Facebook group proclaims him. 

A Midsummer Night's Dream

I've now seen, to the best of my recollection, four musical adaptations of A Midsummer Night's Dream. The first was a really rather enjoyable musical my high school produced, called Dream on Royal Street, which sets the action in a New Orleans hotel during Mardi Gras. The second was Purcell's The Fairy-Queen, which perhaps only partially counts, seeing as its musical numbers have absolutely nothing to do with the Shakespeare. The third was Mendelssohn's, as staged by the Sydney Symphony in last year's delightful season opening gala. And the latest, of course, has been Britten's opera. 

The Britten is wonderful, of course, and yet I hesitate to name it as my favourite of the four. Not because it doesn't deserve to be, but simply because it's a very closely run race. I loved every one of these, even the musical; in fact, it was Dream on Royal Street which introduced me to the concept of liking a show enough go (gasp!) more than once. I think it's just the inherent wonderfulness of the play, which is one of my favourite in the whole world — treated with affection, and at least a modicum of talent, it's probably a difficult one to wreck.

Baz Luhrmann's production came with so much feverish hype attached that I couldn't help doubting it just a little. Thus it was as much a relief as a thrill to arrive in the theatre and be greeted by such an enchanted playground of a set. Pit paved over with astroturf, orchestra (in red uniforms!) warming up in the grand pavilion, birds chirping, incense burning. There's even a lake! I've never in my life felt so much like climbing onto the stage and just playing on the set. It's like Disneyland.

Nor does the enchantment end with first impressions. The whole show is a gorgeous fairyland fantasy. Catherine Martin and Bill Marron deserve multiple medals for their boundless and psychedelic imagination, and for their exquisite aesthetic instincts. Luhrmann's Raj update is a fun and clever concept, but I think it's the design which it makes it so genuinely magical. They've created a world where the absence of fairies would be far more surprising than their presence.

And on top of all of this, we get Britten! Lots and lots of Britten! The allure of this score is a touch more elusive than the vice-like grip of, say, Peter Grimes or Billy Budd, but that's entirely appropriate, given the subject. I just love the way in which each of the play's three worlds is so distinctly evoked — and the ways in which they intertwine. Those spooky, sliding strings which open the opera are so atmospheric, you wonder that the Titania/Oberon scene could ever be staged without them. Hermia's and Lysander's "I swear to thee" duet is adorable, the operatic pastiche of Pyramus and Thisbe is a riot, and "Now until the break of day" is, of course, just one of those time-stands-still moments. Rather than replace it, the magic of Britten preserves and enhances the magic of Shakespeare; this should be impossible, really, and yet it seems to be true. And I think Alexander Briger does a pretty sterling job of drawing those threads out, and drawing them together. This Dream sounds as magical as it looks: what more could you ask? 

I'm all conflicted about how to deal with the singers. The obvious hierarchy — Fairies, Athenians, Mechanicals — seems somehow slightly unfair, since it's such an ensemble opera. But since no other order makes any more sense, it will have to do — and really, why would I gripe about mentioning the excellent Tobias Cole first? I did find his Oberon rather tentative on opening night, but I suspect that was just nerves; by the second performance he was terrific: eerie, focused and quite otherworldly, with just enough edge in that soft, sweet tone to make him menacing as well as mystical. Besides, I do love those long blue claws. Rachelle Durkin is at her best as Tytania, shimmering her way through all the floridity and high notes with such ease that they sound like natural speech. Add her fiery presence and willowy beauty to the cauldron, and what you have is one very persuasive fairy queen.

One of the oddest aspects of the season so far as been my sudden, uncharacteristic soft spot for tenors. Lo and behold, Dream continues the trend, in the person of our Lysander, one James Egglestone, whom I've been waiting to hear in a proper role ever since he stole the show in the 2008 Christmas at the House. He  has absolutely lived up to my expectations, with a gorgeous, vibrantly sung and unbelievably energetic performance — I don't know how he manages to sing so beautifully while tearing up and down all those stairs, but he does, and I'm very happy about it. Lisa Harper-Brown is a different sort of revelation as Helena  — this long-awaited return to the company was my first encounter with her. I loved her immediately. She's such a tall, dashing figure on stage, she sings with polish and poise, and her gift for slapstick is considerable — and made all the funnier by the elegance which underpins it. Welcome back, Lisa, and please stick around. 

Sian Pendry is an adorable Hermia, sounding very warm and contralto-ish and doing her usual brilliant line in hilarious facial expressions — like Rachelle's legs, Sian's eyes really should be insured by the company. The fight with Helena is comedy gold. And I covet both of her dresses. Luke Gabbedy is perhaps the most likeable Demetrius I've ever seen — his rejection of Helena seems to be motivated as much by confusion as by arrogance. The dark refinement of his singing is a good contrast to the expansive Lysander, and he too does a nice job of the physical comedy — the spill he takes on his entrance is seriously impressive.

Jud Arthur and Catherine Carby as Theseus and Hippolyta don't have a huge amount to sing, but when they finally materialise properly in Act Three (after their silent walk-on at the beginning, a concise substitute for Act One of the play, which the libretto omits) they're both in fine voice. Jud, after all, is OA's Captain of Swagger, so he's excellent as the authorative and gently sarcastic ruler; Catherine is radiant as his royal bride, and she manages the Royal Wave so convincingly that I'm sure she must be a secret Windsor.

As for the Rustics, well, they're really just a bunch of limelight hogs. In the best possible sense, of course. Yes, they're a bit over the top, but for this show, they have to be — understatement would seem out of place. As Bottom, Conal Coad has the most to do and the most to sing, and he certainly seems to be loving every minute of it, prancing about and generally acting like an ass, even before he has the ears to match. An ass, that is, with preternatural singing talent. The rest of the boys save their best party tricks for Pyramus & Thisbe, where Andrew Brundson (Snout) is a rather shocked looking Wall (with suggestively placed tap), Andrew Moran (Starveling) is fabulous as a mincing, silver-skirted Moon, Richard Alexander, a wonderfully slow-witted Cockney Snug, is irresistible as the Lion, and Richard Anderson's Swallow is just pompous enough to keep it all from going completely off the rails. But let's face it, the shameless thief of this scene is Stephen Smith as Flute. Or rather, Stephen as Flute as Thisbe. I don't entirely love Stephen's Urkel-esque take on Flute in Act I, but his Thisbe, pirouetting about in her frilly dress (and knickers), is a tour de force.  You'd never know he was the cover (for an indisposed Graeme Macfarlane) — he's made the role ridiculously and adorably his own. 

The boys of the chorus acquit themselves quite beautifully — I'm no great lover of boy sopranos, as we know, but this lot really do sound lovely, and their diction is remarkably good. The dancers — both Titania's pink entourage and Oberon's two blue henchmen — are wonderfully acrobatic, even if their clomping feet do occasionally interfere with the score's delicate moments. Anish Sanghvi is too cute for words as the tiny changeling boy. Alas, the most prominent non-singing role disappointed me. Tyler Coppin certainly looks magical as an elfin, Bollywood Puck, and his agility and energy are extraordinary, but I feel that his exaggerated, high-camp delivery tramples on the character's shadowy side — he provides the giggles, but not the goosebumps, of the role. 

Good lord, what a populous opera. Writing it all up has been a little exhausting, and not nearly as fun as watching it, which I plan to do for a third time next week. Three will probably suffice — I don't want the enchantment to fade through overexposure, and besides, once Bliss opens, I think it will command my undivided attention. This is such an adored and excitedly publicised show that I'm sure it doesn't need any plugs from me. If you want to see it, you've probably already booked; and if you haven't, well, you might want to hurry up. 

The Great Catch-Up, Part II: Sydney Festival

1. WINTERREISE

I have to confess straight away that I was a little bit underwhelmed by this. And yet I hate to admit as much, because it seems so horribly ungrateful. Opportunities to see recitals like this are very rare in this city, and to have a song cycle as great as Winterreise performed by a singer as talented as Ryan McKinny is a gift horse in whose mouth I ought not look. There was, in fact, plenty to admire. His voice was strong and attractive, his vocal stamina and focus were impressive, and his performance quite rightly drew enthusiastic applause. For my tastes, though, his performance lacked that last ounce of captivating magic which makes a recital into an Experience. Everything about him was solid, and while in some ways that's obviously a positive quality, the protagonist of Winterreise is anything but solid —he's fragile, tormented and teetering on the edge of sanity. At some level, I want Winterreise to worry me and unsettle me, and McKinny's, as strongly sung as it was, didn't do that. The second half was more varied and colourful than the first, and there were certain songs which I did find quite moving, but all in all the absence of vulnerability — vocal, physical, emotional — dampened the experience for me. I was pleased for the opportunity to hear the work live, but I hope to have more powerful encounters with it in future. 

About Sharolyn Kimmorley, however, I had no such qualms. Her playing was nimble, colourful and achingly beautiful. And since I unpardonably forgot to mention them in my published review, let me now give credit where it's due to Helga Kvam, whose exquisite winter landscape photos were as eloquent an accompaniment as Sharolyn's playing.

2. OEDIPUS REX/SYMPHONY OF PSALMS

Now this I loved, and it surprised me to discover that others were completely appalled by it. Perhaps my unfamiliarity with both the works contributed to that difference of opinion. Most of those who decried both production and musical leadership were far far better informed than I, so I'm sure they all had a point. Still, I can't alter my own response, which was very positive indeed. I adore Stravinsky's vocal writing, especially in the eerie and incredibly engaging Oedipus Rex, I loved the sound the Sydney Symphony made under Joana Carneiro and while I could appreciate that Peter Sellars's gesture-laden African staging would not appeal to everyone, I found it at worst harmless and at best quite moving. 

Rodrick Dixon in the title role started small and grew large (vocally, I mean — in terms of stature he was a monumental presence throughout), an effect which was probably at least partially deliberate, but which did make for a slightly disconcerting beginning. Ryan McKinny was compelling as Creon, Tiresias and the Messenger (three bearers of unwelcome truths), committing stylishly to Sellars's gestures (one for every word) and singing with vivid expression; the solidity which I felt harmed his Winterreise turned out to be ideally suited to this ritualistic work. Daniel Montenegro functioned as a mute stagehand of sorts throughout, before suddenly bursting into song as the Shepherd, and revealing maybe the loveliest voice in the cast. But the star of the show may just have been Yvonne Kenny, as beautifully regal as they come and singing with all the consummate artistry we've come to expect. Strain up top was amply compensated by her fabulous lower register and captivating presence. And she had one of the best entrances I've ever seen —  as she stepped through the door onto the stage, the chorus exclaimed "Gloria" and every light in the house was illuminated. This should always happen when Yvonne Kenny walks into a room.

The Symphony of Psalms was quite intoxicatingly beautiful, if v-e-r-y s-l-o-w. I have boundless admiration for the Sydney Philharmonia Choirs, who not only sang gorgeously throughout, but who also rose impressively to the challenges of Sellars's staging. This is not an opera chorus; many of its members have never participated in a staged performance like this before, and yet they coped extremely well. No, their movements weren't always slick and perfect, but I actually liked that about them; like having them dressed in their own clothes (blue shirts and jeans for the men of Oedipus rex, greens and whites for everyone in the Psalms), I felt this softened and humanised them. 

As far as the staging went, I preferred Oedipus to Psalms. Elias Sime's seven Ethiopian thrones and Dunya Ramicova's costumes were quite exquisite, and I found Paula Arundell pretty riveting as the Narrator, whom Sellars had turned (with a new text) into Antigone. Sometimes the gestures were a bit much, but at other times I felt they enhanced the singing, adding in some way to the music's visceral effect. Sellars's attempt to link the Symphony to Oedipus by staging it as Antigone's and Ismene's vigil for their father was not quite so successful. As a piece of staging on its own it had some wonderful moments — especially dancer Elma Kris as Ismene — but the connection to the music (and text) was ultimately just a bit too tenuous. 

As with Winterreise, I'm just glad above all that we had the chance to experience these two works live. They're unlikely to reappear here any time soon. It's a shame that the performance was a negative experience for some, but in purely selfish terms, I was pretty satisfied. 

3. CANDIDE

I've never done Opera in the Domain before, and since I ended up in VIP seating for this, you might argue that I still haven't — the Real Experience should probably involve a rug and a picnic. Then again, I don't think I'm really meant for all that sort of thing. I like having a proper seat, even if it's a low rise deck chair, and I like to see my opera close-up and not on big screens. 

I think we could have a four way argument about who was the true star of this Candide. The man in the title role? The prima donna with the hit aria? The celebrity drawcard? Or the unexpected showstealer?. I could be persuaded to award the title to three of these four. David Hobson's singing was not magnificent, but he easily gets by on sheer charm, and while his crooning ain't really my style, it clearly does make a lot of people who aren't me very happy. Emma Matthews was just perfect, adorable to watch and exquisite to hear, and she gave That Aria everything she had. Julian Gavin took me completely by surprise — not only did was he in blazing voice, but he also turned out to be a brilliant comedian, and was utterly hilarious in each of his four bit parts. But Paul McDermott disappointed me as Pangloss and Narrator, with limited voice and even more limited characterisation. 

Judi Connelli on the other hand was a completely fabulous Old Lady, belting it out brilliantly and giving one of the most assured performances of the evening. The five deposed monarchs were another highlight — Sam Sakker, Samuel Dundas, Gennadi Dubinsky, Martin Buckingham and Andrew Jones were both vocally excellent and terribly funny. Amy Wilkinson, whom OA always seems to cast as a tart, was a very nice Paquette. The chorus had good fun with it, even if amplication obscured their usual clarity a bit, and Paul Kildea provided suitably exuberant leadership. 

The staging was pretty minimal, and rehearsal time had clearly been pretty limited; not surprisingly, really, when you consider that the director, Lindy Hume, is also the director of the entire Festival. And to be honest, it didn't really that matter much. You don't need a sophisticated and insightful production for Opera in the Domain, you just need a good night's entertainment, and this Candide was certainly that.  

The Great Catch-Up, Part I: Manon

I have to be honest. There is probably a reason that this show, rather than Tosca or La traviata, is the one which fell a bit by the wayside in terms of blogging. It just isn't an opera I can ever see myself developing a particularly deep relationship with. But it's very pretty and very enjoyable, and I must have liked it, because I went twice. 

Stuart Maunder's production is what it is, lavish and conventional and no more subtle than it needs to be. I'm sure there are greater depths to be explored in Manon, but doing so is sort of an optional extra; the opera is still well suited to a nice straightforward staging with pretty frocks and singers lined up in convenient rows for their ensembles. Such productions, as I think we've established, aren't my favourite thing ever, but in small doses they're pleasant enough. Still, if this one's revived again, the intervals need to be re-thought. At ninety-five minutes, the first half is uncomfortably long, and the single interval throws off even further the opera's already rather dodgy structure. 

I thought the show belonged to Julian Gavin's Des Grieux. It was quite extraordinary to hear a voice as large and dramatic as Julian's in a lyrical role like this. Rather than bust Massenet's vocal lines apart at the seams, he allowed them to overflow with warmth and golden sound, neither denying nor excessively flaunting the inherent power of his voice. He developed the character persuasively, too, voice matched perfectly to demeanour as Des Grieux went from shy student, to ardent lover, to tormented priest, to broken man. I was less convinced by Amelia Farrugia as Manon, thought I expect this puts me in a minority. I thought she was wonderful and utterly believable in the early part of the opera, but it seemed to me that at about the point where Manon betrayed Des Grieux, sincerity gave way to superficial melodrama, and the worse life got for Manon, the less I believed in her suffering. Massenet gives Manon something the Abbé Prévost denies her — an inner life — and I didn't think Amelia explored that as fully as she might have. Her singing, however, was pretty stellar throughout, especially in the high, twinkly passages. I do sometimes wish the (considerable) beauty of her voice was spread a bit more evenly, rather than being so dazzlingly focused in the upper range; but then, when you're lapping up those shimmery high notes, it's hard to complain too much.

In the two big supporting roles, we had two of my favourites, José Carbò and Stephen Bennett. Either of these names on a cast list makes me happy, so it was quite an indulgence to have both of them there, and they both acquitted themselves with characteristic panache. José was a charming rogue (he's good at that) as Lescaut and in such good voice that I just wished there was more for him to sing — or at least, that his showy little hymn to profligacy in the Cours-la-Reine could go on much longer. Who needs the Gavotte when you have José? I kid, but only just. Stephen, meanwhile, was a model of gravity and good sense as the Comte des Grieux, his rigid morality softened by the twinkle in his eye and voice. There is just something so inherently stylish about the way Stephen sings, an idiomatic understanding and unforced dignity which I find quite beguiling in every role, however small — even as the Doctor in Traviata, he was a striking presence — and in Manon he was as classy as ever. 

Cue quick round up of the Professor and Mary Ann (aka The Rest). First mention must go to Guillot de Morfontaine and his luxuriously cast entourage — Kanen Breen blindingly foppish as very camp rake, with Jacqui Dark (Rosette), Amy Wilkinson (Javotte) and Taryn Fiebig (Poussette) the starry trio on hand to taunt and tease him. Richard Anderson was a rather dashing Monsieur de Brétigny — not at all the crusty old sugar daddy I think I expected — whereas Richard Alexander (who played said sugar daddy in last year's Manon Lescaut) was delightfully rough and unkempt as the innkeeper. Plenty of strong singing and powdered French mischief from the chorus, particularly in the debauchery of the gambling scene. And while at this distance, I fear I can't really say anything hugely meaningful about Emmanuel Plasson's conducting, it certainly struck me as suitably French and quite nicely paced. Syrupy in the way Massenet likes to be but not completely decadent — I wouldn't have minded if it had been, though. 

It was a curious thing to see this Manon so soon after Manon Lescaut. While Massenet's opera is in some ways closer to the novel than Puccini's, neither is particularly well constructed — Manon Lescaut lurches about and leaves out vast amounts of plot development, Manon dwells and dwells on the pleasures of love, of poverty, of wealth, of misbehaviour, and then hurriedly tacks on a rather limp death scene (in the wrong country) so the thing can end already. I can't say either convinced me that it was a masterpiece. The Puccini moved me far more deeply than the Massenet, and while that's of course mostly down to Cheryl (oh, how I miss her...), I  think, for all its flaws, I do ultimately prefer Manon Lescaut. Right now, though, I think I've probably had enough of Manon (in any incarnation) for a while. I'm pleased we had this Manon — especially on account of its outstanding male cast — but the heroine and I need to take a break. And Harry Joy is calling.

Peter Quint, you devil!

You may or may not know that the very new Sydney University Opera Company is about to present a season of Britten's The Turn of the Screw. But they are. And since the only thing more deserving of free advertising than a student-produced opera is a student-produced Britten opera, here's the flyer. Click to (significantly) enlarge. 
 

SUOC is brand new and still finding its feet, so I'd encourage you all to support this brave and exciting venture. Besides which, it's Britten! And it's The Turn of the Screw! One of the kookiest, spookiest and most generally wonderful operas in existence. How could you possibly resist? 

You can find out all about SUOC at their official site. Details about Turn of the Screw are also on Facebook, and you can book your ticket(s) here. The season runs from the 2nd to the 6th of March, in the delightfully dilapidated Cleveland Street Theatre. And if it makes any difference to you, I believe a number of Mad Sceners are planning to attend opening night en masse. See you there — or else Miss Jessel will eat you.

La traviata

I should start by raving about the heroine, but I'm not going to. Instead, I'm throwing my usual practice to the wind and starting with the tenor, because Aldo Di Toro's Alfredo has a special place in my heart. This will probably sound strange, but it was Aldo's Alfredo three years ago which made me really understand the appeal of tenors. Oh, there were a few I didn't mind, and I rather liked Ian Bostridge, but could I love them the way I loved female voices? Not a chance. I tried a few times, got halfway there, but never quite managed it. Then along came Aldo (whom I'd already heard in Fedora) and somehow his Alfredo flicked the switch. I got it. Tenors became a part of my devotions, and have remained so. Perhaps it was just good timing on his part, although I suspect it was more than that; but whatever the reason, I'm permanently indebted to Aldo for facilitating that Damascus moment.

His Alfredo on opening night swept me off my feet all over again. He's still the only tenor who has really made me feel that La traviata could just as easily be an opera about Alfredo. His acting isn't what you'd call especially naturalistic — he's a bit melodramatic, really — and yet he's so passionate and so utterly sincere that I find him completely believable. And then there is that voice. That warm, golden, knee-weakening voice. He doesn't shy away from basking in that beauty a bit, spinning out radiant, dreamy sound, but nor does he rely solely on the (sigh) radiance of his timbre to get him through. He's as attentive to the meaning of the words as he is to the gorgeousness of them, and for all the flowing silk of his phrasing, there's a engaging, spoken quality to every word he sings. Even "Libiamo" has a fresh spontaneity to it, and when he gets to that final scene, well, he just breaks your heart. 

Like Aldo, Elvira Fatykhova returns from that 2007 season. Back then, she and Aldo sang precisely one performance together — the one I saw — before Kate Ladner took over as the heroine. This time Opera Australia has wisely cast them together for the whole season. Vocally, they're pretty ideally matched. Both are graceful, delicate and relatively small-scale singers — not spinto powerhouses — and neither outsings (or outshouts) the other. These are two innately beautiful voices and the combination of them a gift for vocal fetishists.

Elvira's Violetta is all silver and pearly sheen. No coloratura passage is so intricate that she can't make light work of it, and her pianissimi must be some of the prettiest on the planet. When she floats that top note at the end of "Addio del passato", you could hear a pin drop — and you'd probably be moved to murder the fool who dropped it. Her voice is slender, not massive, but it can open up thrillingly, and even at high volume retains all its sweetness and precision. No wobbly, warbling courtesan, she; this Violetta's singing is all class. I do have to confess, however, that I find her characterisation rather too reserved. There's a slightly cool quality to her Violetta which, for me, makes her touching but not devastating — and we all know how I love to be devastated. Peter McCallum has a different take on this approach, with which many, I'm sure, will agree. It really comes down to personal taste: given my druthers, I'd just rather have a Violetta a little closer to the edge. But I don't intend to look a gift soprano in the mouth: she's still a very appealing Violetta, and her singing is surely some of the loveliest we'll hear all year.

Aldo and Elvira are between them afford more than enough pleasure for one Traviata, but Opera Australia is very generously throwing in Jonathan Summers as well, and at no extra charge. It's quite a privilege to have such an artist as our Giorgio Germont — it's a bit of a limiting role, after all, and yet with Jonathan on hand, Germont has all the force and towering dignity of a title character. He's full of rage when he comes to see Violetta, and he's not easily won over; it takes the whole of their encounter to unlock the benevolence within him, and even then, he doesn't completely unbend. His voice resounds with authority, righteous anger, and, gradually, with warmth. His loudness can be a little disconcerting when set against Aldo's and Elvira's lighter voices, but even at his blusteriest, he's never coarse — and he's always in character. At Monday's performance, he received what sounded to me like the most vociferous ovation of the evening. I don't expect that's an honour too often afforded to a Germont, but in this case it was entirely deserved.

The problem with Traviata is that absolutely all the significant solo singing is given to the three principals, and the rest of the cast is left to fight over the scraps — making it difficult for the singers in those roles to do anything hugely distinctive, except leave wanting more. Which, happily, is just what this supporting cast does. Dominica Matthews was a fine Flora three years ago, but she's even better now, with that slight edge to her voice now beautifully softened and all the more expressive. The presence of Stephen Bennett as Doctor Grenvil seems almost decadent — such a fine artist in such a tiny role — and yet, when it comes to the final act, the solemn dignity of his performance is precisely what the opera needs. Teresa La Rocca is an Annina whose twinkling clarity rivals the heroine's; in fact it wouldn't surprise me if the title role is already in her sights.

Shane Lowrencev's voice is as imposing as his height, and he does Affronted Baron better than anyone; Andrew Brunsdon is a gleeful, sneaky Gastone, who would surely twirl his moustache if it were longer. It's hard to do much more than simply name and congratulate the rest of the cast, so to Andrew Jones (d'Obigny), Jin Tea Kim (Giuseppe), Jonathan McCauley (Messenger) and Tom Hamilton — congratulations. All were good, nobody let the side down. The chorus is as excellent as ever: women resplendent in their corsets, men terribly amusing in their moustaches, and everyone singing with care and spirit. They're singers, and to a degree, actors; they're not dancers — and the space is very cramped — so one can probably forgive the silliness of gypsy/matador business at Flora's party, although surely it could be less awkwardly staged. Anyway, that's beside the point. They do everything else marvellously. 

An excellent cast, then, and it's a lucky thing they are. Elijah Moshinsky's super-lavish production is very beautiful, and it's a good, straightfoward vehicle for story and score, but it's also spectacularly conventional (and conventionally spectacular) and without a cast as vibrant as this, it would be much less interesting. As it is, the staging has its longueurs, and some of the business seems faded and wearied by the exertions of so many revivals. I'm not saying it should be mothballed just yet — it's good to have some solid pieces like this in repertory, they're an opera company's equivalent of the LBD — but I do think the production needs greater re-invigoration than this revival (rehearsed by Richard Jones) provides. Perhaps bring in Cathy Dadd next time; she worked wonders with Fidelio, after all. 

And I regret to say I'm disappointed in Philippe Auguin's conducting. He's good to his singers, I think, but beyond that I find his style less than moving. The impression I've had so far is that he's emphasising too heavily the bel canto aspects of Traviata, the rum-ti-tum and the flashy showpieces (which are nicely done), and losing the expressive, verismo side of it in the process. Yes, the opera has its roots in that earlier tradition, but it's also a gateway to a more natural and emotionally direct style, and I feel Auguin's approach needs a bit more sensual passion to really sing. 

It occurred to me somewhere along the line that Opera Australia has managed a rather neat bit of programming by schedule La traviata and Manon side by side, since in their original literary forms, one makes quite significant use of the other. In Dumas's La dame aux camélias, Armand gives Marguerite a copy of the Abbé Prévost's Manon Lescaut, and the parallels (and crucial differences) between the two women become a something of a motif. (I could claim to know this from having read the Dumas, but in fact I just remember it from Camille.) So even though La traviata makes no reference to Manon, having the operas so close together invites comparison just the same. Two scandalous yet well-intentioned heroines, two incarnations of the Parisian demi-monde, two stricken tenors, two interfering fathers, and the similarities continue.

I think Violetta and her opera still win on all counts. For all the common features in their stories, Violetta and Manon are more opposites than twins. In fact, in a sense I think each aspires to be the other — Manon starts out with simplicity and clutches at glamour, whereas Violetta abandons the high life for rural tranquillity and true love. And while Manon is undone by her own selfishness, it is Violetta's selflessness which leads her inevitably to ruin. I wonder if the fundamental difference isn't Violetta's illness. Manon is young and foolish and thinks she'll live forever; Violetta isn't that much older, but she's been forcibly reminded that she won't live forever — or even for very long. Unlike her frivolous cousin, she understands the consequences of her actions, and while the path she ultimately takes does resemble Manon's, the woman who navigates it could scarcely be more different. That's what makes her so much easier to love. Giorgio Germont has it right: she truly does deserve a better future. 

Toscaddenda

I said I couldn't stay away, and I meant it. Late last night I decided that I couldn't possibly last any longer and would have to go back to Tosca tonight. Right decision. Tonight's performance outdid opening night. To the point that I feel compelled to take issue with some of my own statements. Or at least to amend them; I stand by all my responses to the first performance, but tonight's was a different and even more powerful experience, and since I am a person who says things, there are things which have to be said. 

1. Rosario. I'm placing him first because this was the biggest surprise. Tonight's was hands down the best sung and acted performance of his I've ever experienced. Almost everything which, two nights ago, I criticised him for not doing, he achieved tonight. Especially in the second half. It was as if, when he sang that first "Vittoria!" so squarely, he felt, and then built upon, his own strength, and whatever was lacking on opening night was suddenly unlocked. I've never seen him so emotionally engaged, and I don't think it's a coincidence that this deeper engagement came hand in hand with some pretty terrific singing.

2. Takesha Meshé Kizart defies belief. She was amazing enough on opening night, but with tonight's performance, even the tiny, vague reservations I half-expressed evaporated completely. There was not a single note of this performance I would have changed. She's sensational. I can't do her justice. Her "Vissi d'arte" tonight is one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard in any theatre, ever.

3. I'm beginning to regret all that stuff I said about not commanding you to see this show — that advice about obeying your own instincts. Because although I can still see why a person would be displeased, or even outraged by the production, there's still just so much about it which is phenomenal and unmissable. I think the production is pretty damn brilliant, and even if you ultimately disagree, I think you're still better off experiencing it than not. Besides which, even if you hate every moment of the staging and are prepared to lynch Christopher Alden come final curtain — the cast and orchestra are insanely good. Miss them, and you miss something special. On your own head be it. 

4. If John Wegner's Scarpia keeps developing at this rate and with this intensity, well, I might not make it out of this season alive. Thank god I've already, somehow, reviewed him because I'm really not sure I'd know how to now. The man deserves a doctoral thesis, not a paragraph of giddy praise. 

5. I said "flawed but fascinating". Let's just say, second time around, the flaws seem far less and the fascination infinitely greater. Alden's staging definitely rewards repeat viewing: it's subtle, complex and teeming with intriguing ideas. I was pretty blown away by opening night, but tonight's performance added another layer of richness, and I'm sure that every time I see it — however many times that might be — I'll keep discovering new things. 

6. And speaking of repeat viewings, well, I'm going to have to watch myself. I don't know how many times I'll end up seeing this Tosca, but I suspect it will be a lot. I thought the absence of Cheryl would be a safeguard against that sort of mania. I was very, very wrong. 

Tosca

Friends, Romans, Sydneysiders. I come to engage with Christopher Alden, not to defend him. I know his Tosca is already making trouble and upsetting people, but I don't believe there is anything to defend. Opera, like any artform, is a living, breathing, mercurial creature, with which there are always new ways — pleasant and unpleasant — to interact. A seven hundred year old painting still has the power to draw a huge variety of reactions; opera, whose existence depends so heavily on live, unpredictable human beings, surely has at least as much license to keep challenging us. Alden's Tosca does so, and that in itself is neither heroic nor criminal — it's just a right; or, if you prefer, a privilege of developed human consciousness. 

Whether Alden's Tosca uses that right/privilege for good or evil is up to each individual who sees the show. I'm not here to convince you one way or the other. This Tosca has teeth and guts enough to fight for itself, to find its own friends and make its own enemies; and I've every faith that it will do both. A lot of people will dislike it — a fair few will, I suppose, be outraged by it — and in this case, I have to say, fair enough. There's plenty to dislike; it isn't for everybody. Nor, however, is it for nobody. There's as much potential in this Tosca for a rewarding experience as there is for a disappointing one. Maybe more, in fact — or maybe that's just me. 

Alden's Tosca, if you haven't already heard, is set squarely in present-day Rome, and that's only the beginning of the changes it makes. There's only one set, a neglected church vestry. Everything happens there, and it happens even faster than usual: Acts Two and Three play without a break. Adjustments have been made to every character, changes which go far beyond a change of costume. Their material circumstances, their psychology, their response to the world around them, all of these have been integrated into Alden's concept, which, whatever else you might say about it, is certainly thorough. 

Inevitably, some parts of this revamp works better than others: there are inconsistencies, improbabilities and the odd misstep. But if you can suspend disbelief — or better, to transfer it, for this is, in its way, a very believable world — then the overall vision which emerges is quite extraordinary. The attempts by the now visible Marchese Attavanti to hide in plain sight, for instance, are pretty laughable; but seeing her bear unwilling witness to the night's events is a chilling reminder that the machinations of this claustrophobic opera have wider consequences — that Tosca and Cavaradossi are not the only victims. And while Cavaradossi's unconventional death suffers from unclear staging, Tosca's — which is even more unconventional — is a jaw dropper.

The hardest scene to watch is the Act Two confrontation between Tosca and Scarpia. It's graphic and it's sickening — it's the reason for the warning signs — but it's far from gratuitous. What happens is exactly what even the most traditionally portrayed Scarpia has in mind: the only difference here is how far he succeeds in achieving his aim, and I think Alden is right to remind us how completely hideous that aim is. It brought tears to my eyes at the time, and it's doing so again now as I remember it. For me, it epitomises the uncomfortable truth of this Tosca. Alden's method of storytelling is confronting, problematic, and not always completely successful, but I emerged feeling that, for all the liberties taken — all the details altered, conventions broken, motives imagined — this production was, in some larger sense, incredibly true to its source. 

A vital part of that truthfulness is the arresting central performance of Takesha Meshé Kizart as Tosca, embodying this very different incarnation of her character with deep, unwavering commitment. Kizart's Tosca — Alden's Tosca — is a fragile romantic whose beauty far transcends her shabby circumstances, and whose dreams are her only refuge from an unromantic and precarious existence. From the outset she inhabits a world of her own, and every injury she suffers, be it emotional or physical, causes her to retreat further into her own delusions. By the final act she is completely undone, cowering in the confessional, and babbling of mock executions and future happiness to a Cavaradossi who might be dead already, for all the difference it would make.  

Kizart's singing is as fearless and as eerily beautiful as her characterisation. Her dark, distinctive timbre asserts itself from its very first "Mario!" and never once slacken its grip: she weathers the score's every storm with irresistible, Italianate style. Her experience in the role (and in Alden's staging) pays dividends: she's alive to the nuances of score and text and not afraid to assert her individuality. At times her singing could benefit from a touch more refinement, particularly in the middle of her voice; but at the role's vocal extremes — and Tosca does spend most of the opera in extremis — she is sensational. Her "Vissi d'arte" is entirely her own, its soaring climax and exquisite pianissimi blooming organically from the drama, with not a trace of the warhorse about them. 

Rosario La Spina's Cavaradossi is certainly the strongest vocal performance I've heard from him: his singing, particular in the lower register, sounds much more secure than it has in other roles, and he's reigned in his sometimes haphazard approach to the top notes. The only drawback is that these notes are now under increased pressure, and do occasionally crack; still, there's an overall sense of increased solidity to his sound which is heartening to hear. His acting is disappointing, however, particularly opposite such a vivid Tosca. He's quite engaging in the early scenes, going about his business and chatting to the Sacristan; but when the going gets tough, he doesn't really engage with the darker psychology of the role. To be fair, some of this apparent detachment might well be intentional — Alden seems keen to convey a sense of all-round alienation — but that only goes so far, and La Spina's static, generalised presence ultimately seems out of place amidst such believable (and very modern) acting from the rest of the cast. 

Not for the first time in Tosca history, it is in Scarpia, not Cavaradossi, that our heroine really meets her match. John Wegner has an uncanny knack for simulating all manner of evil, and even though Alden's staging strips Baron Scarpia of his title, his swishy cape and most of his dignity, he still finds the role's black, autocratic heart and dominates accordingly. The creepy charisma which some Scarpias possess has no place here: Wegner's Scarpia is utterly repellent, a vicious and perverted police chief in a shabby anorak, despised even by his own henchmen. Yet Wegner delineates his character so lucidly, and sings his music with such innate majesty, that he commands the stage even in his pettiest and most disgusting. In Alden's inventive hands this opera become as much Scarpia's story as it is Tosca's, and in Wegner, he has a singer with all the authority and imagination necessary to pull off this shift in prominence. He dies, and he deserves it, but by the time the curtain drops, he too is the victim, in a story which begins just as it ends — and if that sounds cryptic, it's meant to. No spoilers here. 

Each member of the supporting cast makes a strong impression in one way or another. Best of them all is Warwick Fyfe as the Sacristan, a greasy janitor-cum-security guard whose religious observance is limited to the occasional halfhearted sign of the cross beneath an icon surrounded by fairy lights. In an easily neglected role, Fyfe's ringing, expansive baritone and detailed stage presence are a revelation and a luxury, and since the role of Scarpia is evidently in his sights — he'll sing it in the final performance — this performance is an auspicious hint that he might just pull it off. Graeme Macfarlane (Spoletta) and Luke Gabbedy (Sciarrone) are a suitably grim pair of corrupt coppers, rising admirably to the challenges of their significantly enlarged roles. Jud Arthur is a strongly sung and acted Angelotti, while Sian Pendry, as his usually unseen and unheard sister, is even more striking — whatever you think of the decision to include the Marchese as a character, Pendry commits to it completely, and it is a joy to hear the shepherd boy's song sung by her rounded, radiant mezzo instead of a thin boy soprano. The chorus makes much of its somewhat limited duties, and throws itself brilliantly into one of the best bits of vocal writing in the whole opera (maybe the whole world), the extraordinary Te Deum which concludes Act One. 

After a slightly underwhelming start, conductor Andrea Licata eventually draws a nicely focused and cohesive performance from the AOBO. His deliberate approach does rob the score of a little of its visceral power, and there are a few odd tempo choices, especially in the beginning — "Recondita armonia" is especially slow, to the detriment of La Spina's phrasing. Nevertheless, he does find his way into the tense, pulsating core of the opera, and there is a certain bleak quality to his reading which is very much in keeping with Alden's staging. Licata's Tosca simmers, rather than boil over, but when coupled with this production's depiction of barely-concealed horrors and cracked veneers, that's a quality at least as riveting as plain old blood and guts. 

This is a curious Tosca, flawed but fascinating, and definitely one of the more thought-provoking productions of a standard repertoire piece that I've seen from Opera Australia. The company took a risk in staging it, and for all the fallout, I'm pleased that they did. It's bound to generate strong reactions, both for and against, and I'm sure they knew from the outset that it would, but knowing that a production won't be universally praised is not a reason not to stage it. And don't let the fact that it made the papers fool you: the booing on opening night was limited and pretty subdued, and there were plenty of cheers and appreciative whistles to be heard as well. Ticket sales are looking very strong (summer and Puccini will do that) and it remains to be seen whether the overall response will be more positive or negative — I don't think you can judge an opera by its opening night. 

Should you see it? My advice is to follow your instincts. The reviews published so far all seem to me, in their various ways, to reflect the live experience pretty well, so if everything you've heard and read makes you think you'll hate it, then there's a strong chance you will. But if any aspect of the casting, the production, or indeed the opera itself has you tempted, then I say, pursue that urge. It might work for you, and it might not, but it's worth finding out. As for me, I find myself quite drawn to it, in all its haunting strangeness. I'm already lining up more return visits than I'd planned; it ain't exactly pretty, but somehow I just can't stay away.

2009 in review: Opera Australia

This would usually be the post in which I handed out various laurels to the best of the past year's Opera Australia season. The problem is that this year, all of those laurels would just have to go to Peter Grimes, wouldn't they? It was truly the best of everything. So I'm opting instead for a more inclusive (and, typically, more longwinded) approach.

Here are Fifty-Two Things I Loved at Opera Australia in 2009.

1. The chance to see Moffat Oxenbould's exquisite production of Madama Butterfly live in the theatre, and with the soprano for whom it was created in the title role. I could see those petals fall a hundred times and the magic wouldn't fade.

2. The palpable electricity of Cheryl Barker's final Butterfly of the season, a stunning and maybe paradoxical combination of utter abandon and gorgeous refinement. 

3. Antoinette Halloran's short notice triumph in the same role when Cheryl cancelled what turned out to be the first of three performances. Her standing ovation came a little later in the run but she deserved it for that first performance.

4. The spontaneous (and unanimous) standing ovation for Cheryl's second Butterfly. Yes, it can probably be explained by the high proportion of tourists in the audience that night, but it was still a great thing to see. 

5. The last of Cheryl's January Butterflies, before she adjourned to Paris and Antoinette officially took over. She had cancelled three times, my poor nerves were shattered; but at last, she was back, and with the considerable bonus of Jacqui Dark, filling in for Catherine Carby as Suzuki. 

6. Jonathan Summers's two fabulous entrances in Cav/Pag, first as a Mafioso Alfio and then, even better, as a haunting and darkly comedic Tonio. I didn't exactly love this double bill, but I swear there's no production so dire it can't be immediately improved by the presence of Jonathan Summers.

7. José Carbo's beautiful (but of course, much too short) appearance as Pagliacci's Silvio. I tell you, if there's one thing this season needed, it was more José. 

8. And again, from Pagliacci, Stephen Smith's strong cameo as Beppe, the first of his many bit parts in this season and an auspicious introduction.

9. Fine, one from Cavalleria Rusticana. Dominica Matthews's surprisingly convincing Lola. I wouldn't have picked Dominica for verismo repertoire and yet she absolutely made it work.

10. Emma Pearson's suitably ferocious Queen of the Night. I tried to see her a second time but (sigh) she was indisposed. So please, please, Opera Australia, bring her back soon.

11. Two lovely Paminas in Emma Matthews and Hye Seoung Kwon, each of whom brought her own brand of prettiness to the role. Objectively, I'd give Emma the victory; subjectively speaking, I preferred Hye Seoung's voice in the role.

12. Andrew Moran as a very funny Aussie Papageno. Warwick Fyfe did a fine job in the role but somehow Andrew was even more hilarious, and I'm more enamoured of his voice every time I hear it.

13. The privilege of a true dramatic soprano in our midst, in the form of Susan Bullock, a sensational Katerina in Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk. 

14. All the seedy and confronting glory of aforementioned Lady M and of Francesca Zambello's excellent production. I'm still kicking myself for not making it to a second performance. 

15. Jacqui Dark's rather brave performance as Aksinya in the opera's infamous "barrel scene".

16. The overpowering sound of the AOBO as, under the leadership of Sir Richard Armstrong, it tore into Shostakovich's blazing score. Loudness of the best sort. 

17. And, of course, the very successful company début of my compatriot, heldentenor Simon O'Neill as a thoroughly slapworthy (but magnificently sung) Sergei.

18. The opportunity to finally express admiration for Elke Neidhardt. She and I have not had the best history, but I thought her work as revival director of the Moshinsky production of Werther was just superb. Loved the costumes, too. 

19. The eternally swoonworthy voice of Aldo Di Toro as the lovelorn Werther. 

20. The delightful surprise of Sarah Crane's sparkling Sophie. I adored her (and her character, who should have annoyed me) and I'm rather upset at her absence from the 2010 season. I hope she's back in 2011.

21. In a rather, shall we say, uneven production of Acis and Galatea, Shane Lowrencev's towering, raging and hilariously insatiable Polyphemus. His "O ruddier than the cherry" was my favourite part of the opera. 

22. Over the top though it may have been, Patrick Nolan's staging of Damon's "Shepherd, what art thou pursuing?" in said Acis, which piled in almost everything a director could do to outrage the easily outraged. 

23. The virtuosic grotesquerie of Kanen Breen's Sorceress in Dido and Aeneas, one of the best (and downright weirdest) performances I've seen from him.

24. Yvonne Kenny's devastating final Dido, which far outdid the other three I saw and included the most moving rendition of "When I am laid in earth" I've ever experienced. 

25. Tamara Wilson's sweet and finely wrought Aida, proof that you don't need to blast the roof off to be an idiomatic and effective Verdi soprano.

26. And speaking of idiomatic: Michael Lewis's excellent Amonasro. There's a man with Verdi in his blood. 

27. Graeme Murphy's staging of the final act of Aida. I wasn't very taken with the first half of this production, but the clearer the stage became, the better it worked, and the tomb scene was really very striking. 

28. David Parkin's return to the opera theatre stage, his first OA performance since he appeared as Sparafucile after winning Operatunity Oz. It's great to see that for once, the winner of a TV talent show has turned out to be absolutely the genuine article. 

29. The night when Cheryl Barker altered the staging of Manon Lescaut's "Sola, perduta, abbandonata", and then every subsequent performance she gave of it. Flawed opera, very flawed heroine, but that final scene had a raw truth to it which was heart stopping.

30. The delectable misbehaviour of Cheryl's Manon in her gilded second act: her playful trills, the spitefully held high note, eight gorgeous renditions of "In quelle trine morbide", the fabulous frock, eight different ways of enunciating "E il busto?", the look on her face when caught in the act of fleeing with her lover and the jewels. 

31. Just surrending to Cheryl's unparalleled ability to make me fall hopelessly in love with a character I thought I didn't like.

32. For good measure, two very fine tenors. Stephen Smith's Harlequin-esque Edmondo, and Jorge Lopez-Yanez's ardent Des Grieux. 

33. The total revelation that was Fidelio. Not that I was expecting to dislike it; but I never expected to love it so much. Opening night was one of the best nights I had in the opera theatre all year. 

34. Speaking of revelations and Fidelio, Peter Coleman-Wright's magnificently villainous Don Pizarro. I never knew he could be so evil, but he absolutely was, from his terrifying "Ha, welch' ein Augenblick" to the fabulous swirl of his cape when he took his final bow. 

35. Best of all, though, Lorina Gore's perfect (there's no other word!) Marzelline. I knew I liked Lorina, but it was this performance which turned me into a bona fide fan and raised my hopes for her future sky high. 

36. Still with Fidelio, Cathy Dadd's direction of this revival. It's a pretty traditional, straightforward production; a lesser talent might have fallen asleep at the wheel, but Dadd kept the show as vivid and compelling as could be. 

37. My Emma Matthews epiphany, which was sparked by her new CD but consolidated by her exquisite Giulietta in I Capuleti e i Montecchi. It turned out she'd been ill and apparently not at her best on opening night, but I must have had my diva goggles (or auditory equivalent) on because I loved her. 

38. Aldo Di Toro's return as Tebaldo, after missing opening night. A surprisingly three-dimensional characterisation and, of course, sublimely sung. Can't wait for his Elvino in Sonnambula. 

39. And yes, believe it or not, Orpha Phelan's rather bleak and jagged production of Capuleti. I might be in the minority but I liked it a lot. It might not have been visually beautiful, but in its own jagged way, it seemed to highlight the beauty of the score.

40. Anthony Warlow's Ko-Ko in The Mikado. Despite all my arms-folded resistance to the supposed charms of Gilbert and Sullivan, I couldn't help but warm to him. I know others thought much less of him, but ever contrary, I finally began to understand his appeal.

41. Warwick Fyfe's revelatory Poo-Bah. Hands down the most impressive thing I've seen him do, and I don't mean that as faint praise. He was completely ideal for the role, both vocally and temperamentally. I was terribly impressed. 

42. The high camp of Kanen Breen's Nanki-Poo. It's always fun seeing Kanen in a role where he gets to show off his gift for physical comedy.

43. Jim Sharman's delightful framing device for his production of Cosi fan tutte, the Japanese wedding. I especially liked the immaculately pair of wedding planners; having the newlyweds dance during "Soave sia il vento" was also a lovely touch. 

44. And, of course, the colour co-ordinated confetti.

45. Rachelle Durkin's simple, sincere and very touching "Per pietà". 

46. Tiffany Speight's show stealing striptease for Despina's "Una donna". I'm still keen to hear Tiffany in a less soubrettish role, but in the meantime, she's a pretty amazing maid. 

47. Neil Armfield's and Peter Carroll's extraordinary conception and expansion of the role of Dr Crabbe in Peter Grimes. 

48. David Corcoran's fantastically well sung Bob Boles. Another burgeoning star for whom I have very high hopes.

49. The succession of jaw-dropping moments which was opening night of Grimes. 

50. The unique spirit which developed among the audiences for Grimes, a sort of solidarity and fraternal feeling borne of an extraordinary shared experience. I've never felt anything like it and for all I know, I may never feel it again.

51. Similarly, the way in which we all responded to that experience, both in conversation and in writing; the speechlessness which turned into an inability to stop talking about it. Very few productions, after all, could produce a collective response quite like this. 

52. The darkened pit.

And now that that's all done and dusted, here are the Peter Grimes laurels. 

My soprano of the year is Susan Gritton. I've heard Susan in various repertoire over the years and generally quite liked her, but her Ellen Orford flicked a switch. She was shattering and sublime in that role, and now with every single piece of music I hear her sing, I fall in love all over again. There's no question that we have the late Richard Hickox to thank for her presence in Grimes, and she's truly one of the most precious gifts he left us. I hope and pray we'll see her back here one day.

My baritone of the year is of course Peter Coleman-Wright, and I also want to name him as my revelation of the year. Maybe that's a strange thing to say about a singer I've been listening to on a daily basis for a couple of years, but this was the year in which he won my devotion in his own right, and not just by association. Plus, his Balstrode was just astonishingly beautiful. I'll never forget the way he fidgeted with suppressed rage as the villagers closed in on Ellen, or the look he threw her as he joined the mob on their way to the hut, or the sublime way he sang in that third act scene. And so many more moments, but I should stop.

Naturally Mark Wigglesworth, Neil Armfield, Ralph Myers and Damien Cooper all take out their respective categories. I've never witnessed such a powerful and triumphant creative collaboration, and people who have been attending OA performances for decades longer than I have have said the same thing. Every facet of Grimes was just so right, from the pit to the stage to the morning sun coming through the skylights. I wish I could say more but, well, see #51 above — it's either astonished silence or endless praise.

So I come to my tenor of the year and, more importantly, my singer of the year. Who else could it be but Stuart Skelton? I had started anticipating his Grimes before it was even announced. Then he sang it in London and the critics (and audiences) went crazy. And finally, here he was in Sydney and he exceeded every expectations. I've been over this before, and since there are only so many ways to put it, I won't repeat myself too much now. But Stuart's Grimes was a treasure, a terror and, I think, a life-altering experience. I shan't ever forget it, and I know for a fact I'm far from alone in that. 

L'Ormindo

The wonderful thing about Pinchgut Opera is that mediocrity just isn't an option. The success of a company like Opera Australia rises and falls on variables — singers, directors, conductors and so on, who change with every show. With Pinchgut it's all about the constants. We know they'll choose intriguing repertoire, and we know roughly from which era it will come. We know the fabulous Orchestra of the Antipodes will be involved, and that if there's a chorus, it will be Cantillation. We know they'll cast singers who are completely at ease with the opera's stylistic demands. And we know that all the above will be shown off beautifully by the City Recital Hall acoustic. So long before we arrive at the performance — in fact, before we even know what that performance will actually be — the foundations of excellence are already set, and all the company has to do to make us happy is just be itself. The rest is so many cherries on top.

Thus we come to Pinchgut's 2009 production, Cavalli's L'Ormindo, and right near the top of my personal list of cherries is director Talya Masel. This was Pinchgut's first comedy in a while — all I've ever seen them do previously is military drama — and it could hardly have been placed in better hands. I interviewed Talya for Fine Music a couple of months ago, and her passion for the art form (and for life in general) was utterly infectious; I could happily have chatted to her for hours. That same exuberance burst forth in her production of L'Ormindo, which embraced both absurdity and plain humanity with equal affection. The tumultuousness of this opera might be over the top, but the fundamental emotional crises behind it aren't actually very far from normal life. Masel's production reflected this nicely, having enormous fun with the show, indulging in its excesss, but maintaining just enough dignity to make the serious bits as engaging as the farcical ones. Adam Gardnir's colourful costumes (Arabian Nights for the women, Casablanca for the men) and cartoonish sand dune set — from which I expected Morocco Mole to materialise at any moment — were thoroughly charming, and the whole thing was lit astutely by Bernie Tan-Hayes, who was clearly in on the joke. (Serious kudos is also due to Mark Gaal and Sean Hall, who stepped in at very short notice to complete rehearsals after Masel was obliged to return urgently to Melbourne. The result was laudably seamless.) 

Pinchgut casts are always good, but with this one I think they outdid themselves. In the four years I've been Pinchgutting, this was the strongest set of singers I've heard, and all the more impressive for the fact that only one of them was imported — Australia seems to have a real knack for producing first rate early music singers. That single import was of course our Ormindo: the very welcome and very talented David Walker. He isn't exactly the most ardent lover ever to grace a stage, but there's a sort of dry wit and open, easygoing spirit to his stage presence which I really rather like. And his voice, especially once it hits its stride, is just lovely: pure and clear, with an expressive strength winningly clothed in airy sweetness. His rival for the Queen's affections was not quite so convincing; Trevor Pichanick's singing was attractive and increasingly confident, but his awkward stage presence on opening night was difficult to really engage with — more schoolboy than military hero, although he seemed more at ease once he was restored to his true love.

Ormindo might be the title role, but there's no question that the show belongs to the object of his affections, the Moroccan queen, Erisbe — especially when the Erisbe in question is the magnificent Fiona Campbell, for once given the chance to play a girly part instead of a pants role. Her radiant, pliable voice wrapped itself around this wide-ranging role with silky expressivity and exquisite dynamic control. Hers was a curiously adorable adultress, one so completely sincere even at her most scandalous that to reproach her misbehaviour seemed unthinkable. No wonder her elderly husband ended up indulging her roving eye so completely. How could anybody resist?

Ah, but if it's irresistibility we're talking about, then I must talk about Taryn Fiebig. I've expressed reservations — sometimes quite serious reservations — about Taryn in other roles, but I had no such qualms about her performance here, as the princess Sicle. Cavalli is home territory for Taryn, the kind of repertoire in which she first made a splash, and it absolutely showed, in idiomatic, imaginative and glitteringly gorgeous singing which was far and away the best I've heard from her. Her acting was no less engaging — she seemed to be having the time of her life up there, and her glee was infectious. I can't deny that I've had a troubled relationship with Taryn's singing; but if her subsequent performances live up to this one, well, things might just get a whole lot simpler. 

Of course, it wouldn't be opera without a little bit of cross dressing and Cavalli and his librettists provide us with both varieties. There's a breeches role in the form of Nerillo, Amida's page (sung very cutely by a gamine Jane Sheldon) and then, much more prominently, a female role written for a male voice — Sicle's nurse Erice, sung by Kanen Breen. What better role to show off Kanen's gift for contortive travesti insanity? He was a total show-stealer as the lascivious old nurse, camping it up something atrocious, while twisting both his voice and his body (let's not forget he's a dancer too) into outrageous knots. His delivery of Erice's "Verginella infelice" — a sort of (rather more graphic) seventeenth-century version of Zerbinetta's "Als ein Gott" — more or less brought down the house. And amidst all of these high, high voices, Richard Anderson's stern Ariadeno (the King, you know) was, I have to admit, welcome relief. He made much of a pretty limited role, his reasonably dignified presence balancing Erisbe's mockery of his impotence. 

L'Ormindo doesn't include a chorus, so there was no job for Cantillation this year. They did, however, supply a couple of soloists. As the captain Osmano, Andrei Laptev didn't have much to sing until the latter part of the opera, but when the chance came, his bright tenor was quite a revelation. Anna Fraser was even more remarkable. In last year's David et Jonathas all she had was a couple of lines; here she sang not one, but two roles, playing both Melide (Sicle's lady-in-waiting) and Mirinda (Erisbe's companion). It was really quite a tour de force. Her singing was elegant and delicately shaded, easily holding its own against that of her more experienced colleagues, and her fabulous rendition of Mirinda's "Vecchi, insensati" (a hilarious diatribe against the folly of May-December romances) proved she's as stylish a comedienne as she is a singer. 

All this energy and fabulousness is nothing less than Cavalli's mercurial melodrama deserves. The libretto covers a vast deal of emotional territory — the music is similarly wide-ranging — and it all happens at a pretty cracking pace, especially in the first two acts. In the sublimely capable hands of the Orchestra of the Antipodes, Cavalli's sparse scoring came to life with astonishing colour and expressivity. The vocal writing is continuous and conversational, but the recitative, copious as it is, is appealingly varied, and, when delivered with as much nuance as it was here, it's as vivid as any aria. Conductor Erin Helyard (co-artistic director the company) led from the harpsichord, and his energetic, sensitive and very mobile leadership was enchanting to hear and a delight to watch — Helyard conducts, it seems, with his whole body, his movements so intertwined with the music that it's difficult to know who's controlling whom. This is the first time he's conducted a Pinchgut production; I really, really hope he'll do it again soon. 

Two days after closing night, the moment for saying You Should Go has obviously passed, so I shall have to settle for I Hope You Went. As consistently excellent as Pinchgut's productions are, I think this one might just have topped the lot. It was certainly my favourite of the four I've seen, and not just because it was so funny — although that did help. But above all, this was Pinchgut doing what it does best, and doing it even better than last time, with an inspired choice of repertoire brought to the stage by a seriously gifted creative team. Jokes or no jokes, that's a pretty irresistible combination.

The Mad Scene

This will not be news to some of you, but to others it will. Along with Simon, whom you may know from the comments section/Twitter/the Brittensphere, I've started a Facebook group dedicated to spreading Sydney opera madness. Which is to say, a nice, shiny Web 2.0-type forum for passionate operagoers — and casual attendees — in Sydney and further afield to share and spread our fanaticism. It's called The Mad Scene, and you can join in the fun here. Share your thoughts, opinions, photos, experiences and everything else; feel free to start up a discussion topic or post an event; invite your friends/acquaintances/mortal enemies; and as our membership grows (35 in two days is a promising start!) so too, I hope, will the fabulous insanity. Who knows, we might even start a claque or two. 

First and last

It's a curious sort of double life I lead. On the one hand, I live and breathe opera every day, and have done so for years; I listen to it, I watch it and, of course I write about it, and while doing so doesn't pay the bills, it nevertheless is, for lack of a better term, What I Do. But on the other hand, I'm only twenty-five and I've only lived in a city with an opera company for three years. So however deep my immersion, it's the plain and simple truth that a lot of things which happen to me, happen for the first time. And Peter Grimes has been richer in these Firsts than most.

We know I'm an obsessive sort of person and almost always inclined to see a show more than once if I can. I'll do that for all sorts of reasons. But I usually don't see every show in a season unless there's a particular — generally soprano-shaped — drawcard. In fact, there are only four productions about which I can absolutely truthfully say I saw every performance, and it will be no surprise to anybody that the cause in every case was either Yvonne Kenny or Cheryl Barker. I'm seeing every performance of Peter Grimes, however, and while the cast abounds with singers who would, on their own, be more than reason enough for my completist urge to kick in, it's nevertheless not about any one individual or any starry-eyed fixation. It is the show itself which keeps pulling me back, and above all, it is the opera itself — all this irresistible magnetism has its ultimate roots in the magic wrought by Britten. 

That magnetism must be powerful, too, because this is also the first season in which I've seen my own urge to return and return reflected in so many other people. People who sometimes think I'm a bit mad for going back are now doing it too. A few friends who almost never see anything twice, have come back, and among my fellow devotees, my 6/6 record is closer than usual to being equalled. In fact I expect it has been equalled, and so it should. And while there's a glow that hangs about from show to show, each time is somehow also the first time, as fresh and as revelatory as when we began. There's no going through the motions and no sense of getting through the less interesting bits, as I might have felt with other operas I attended multiple times. Each visit is its own experience. 

Peter Grimes has also given rise to a delightful subculture that I've always sort of wished for and never really seen. On Twitter, on Facebook, via email and in the comments of this blog, those of us knocked over by the show seem hungrier than usual to discuss it, to read and write about it, and, despite the piece's devastating nature, to joke about it. I've cried more than ever while watching it, but between acts and between performances, we've had a lot of fun. I've met old friends and made new ones during the intervals. I've traded lines from the libretto with fellow Grimes-nerds over the internet. The other night, a passing suggestion that we might all come to closing night in Borough-themed costume turned into a hilarious and increasingly surreal discussion of suitable outfits — from Ned Keene's jaunty vest, to William Spode's ghost, to my personal favourite: sea horses. 

Most striking of all has been the audience response. In my admittedly limited experience, I've never known anything like it, and I suspect the Opera Theatre hasn't felt this kind of outpouring for quite some time. Sydney audiences, who so rarely stand, have stood more than once for Peter Grimes. And they've done so immediately, rising at Stuart Skelton's first solo bow and staying on their feet throughout the entirety of the curtain call. Even before that, the applause which has filled the house just at the end of the first act has been consistently longer and louder than usual, and when conductor Mark Wigglesworth leads the orchestra's bow before Act Three, the ovation is quite extraordinary. In a sense, I think the applause has become for us a form of catharsis as much as a mark of approval. Even on opening night, when I suspect we were all too taken aback to stand, I have never seen so many arms raised so high to applaud — as if we wanted to just reach out and embrace the artists who had given us such a phenomenal experience. Nor have I myself ever clapped so loud and so long and on so many occasions. My shoulders ache. I can feel them right now.

Without hyperbole or wolfcrying, I can tell you this: I've never experienced anything like this Peter Grimes in my life; and while performances of a similar magnitude might flow a little thicker and faster in the years to come, I nevertheless cannot see anything ever effacing the particular and precious memory of this season. Certainly it has beaten everything else comparable in my life so far — and in fact, I think it did so before the Prologue had even finished on opening night. The moment I first saw Peter Carroll lead Stuart Skelton gently and silently downstage, I knew this was something different, and something which would stay with me for a long long time to come.

Amidst all these firsts, however, comes a cruel finality. The season was a short one and tonight sees the final performance of Peter Grimes. I've already heard talk of a revival: let us hope it is sooner rather than later. Too late now to tell you to see it; if you haven't done so, you probably either feel keenly what you've missed, or were never much bothered to begin. Those of us (and there are a lot of us) who have seen it or will do so surely can't help but feel how incredibly fortunate we've been to see this Grimes, and to see it at the start of its journey. Next comes Perth, then Houston, and after that, who knows? I hope Neil Armfield's show will see — and be seen by — the world. Both they and he — and Benjamin Britten — deserve nothing less. 

Dr Crabbe

I don't know if this is post is especially necessary after Harriet's on the same topic, in which she says a good deal of what's been in my mind. Still, I do want to speak my mind just a little (well, a lot) about Dr Crabbe, whose enlarged presence in Neil Armfield's production of Peter Grimes has been cordially dividing opinion.

As I have said, I wholeheartedly love Dr Crabbe. This is for a multitude of reasons, not all of which I trust myself fully to explain. One of them has to be the way he is played by Peter Carroll. Carroll's performance is so nuanced and so perfectly measured that his presence can only be a joy (and a privilege). And he's so thoroughly convincing — especially for somebody like me, I suspect, who has never seen him in any other role — that he seems really to become Crabbe, to inhabit him so fully, it's almost a ghostly encounter. He's possibly helped in this by the fact that this version of the character is very much Armfield's creation, so that there's no canonical ideal for which he must strive: he doesn't need to be as good as anyone else's Dr Crabbe, because there is no other Dr Crabbe at all like him. Unlike Stuart Skelton (who shakes it all off so easily anyway) his role comes baggage-free.

I also accept him because, quite frankly, this production (and this opera) leave me in no fit state to do anything else. Even if the idea bothered me in principle, in practice I'd be too busy stitching myself back together to notice. But you see, the idea doesn't bother me, even in principle, because the truth it is, I don't have too many hard and fast principles when it comes to the staging of opera. I don't like willful stupidity, I don't like dullness and I don't like to hear the music itself assaulted. That's it. Beyond that, I take each production as it comes and I try to accept it on its own terms, which is why, to date, I can think of only two or three productions I've really strongly disliked, and even then, I could probably still find a few good words for them. Besides, putting the author or the composer on stage is not an unheard of device; Armfield in fact has stronger backing for this decision than most, since his author is actually there in the libretto, ripe for the interpreting.

There is the argument that his presence at the side of the stage — observing all, doing sometimes very little — is  distracting. I never found him so. Perhaps my focus is too narrow, but in this show I rarely find myself regarding the full breadth of the stage. My eyes and my mind are forever being dragged about by this or that conversation or character. For me, Dr Crabbe only comes into focus when he's brought there, either by his own movements or by Peter. I don't regard his involvement in Peter's madness as intrusive: his unearthly air seems to me to heighten the hallucinatory quality of Peter's turmoil. Note, too, that Armfield's program note links his Dr Crabbe not just to the poet, but to Grimes's own father, who appears in the poem — and of whom the original Peter Grimes does indeed have visions, alongside those of his dead apprentices. 

And if we're speaking of intrusion, then I think it's worth noting that, as all-pervasive as Dr Crabbe's presence is, the role he plays is very much that of emotionally invested observor and not puppetmaster. He may look a bit like Bernard Shaw, but that's where his resemblance to this poster ends. Peter is his creation, but having created him and set him down in the Borough, he can no longer intervene. I know there have been productions of operas in which the composer directs the action, moving the players and so forth; this is not what Armfield and Carroll do with Dr Crabbe. I think that's a big part of the intense affection and sympathy I feel for his character: in many ways, he's in the same position as I am — deeply concerned for Peter, but ultimately powerless to do anything but offer love and support, and let fate run its course. When, at the beginning of Act 3, he sits, exhausted, and has a drink, he looks just as shattered as I feel. 

Finally, lest this become an entirely theatrical essay, I want also to put a word in for what I think is the extreme musicality of Armfield's Dr Crabbe. It's another reason why I don't regard him as distracting. Everything that the character does is in some way reflected in the score. Nowhere is this more apparent than during the Interludes. Staging orchestral passages of operas is a tricky business, but ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I give you Neil Armfield. Yes, on one very practical level, Peter Carroll is acting as a stagehand, changing a set which needs to be changed. And yet he's doing much more than that. Let me put it this way: initially, I was tempted to close my eyes during the Interludes, so as better to focus on the extraordinary music. And then I realised that watching Carroll's subtly choreographed movements was having the same effect. This, incidentally, is a quality which extends far beyond just Dr Crabbe: Armfield's ability to seamlessly match action with music is quite astounding.  

You see, this is the effect this Grimes has upon me. I've written this much on just one aspect. There are probably a dozen other facets of it which could draw at least as many words out of my virtual pen. I still haven't fathomed the riches of this beautiful Peter Grimes. I cannot stop thinking about it. I doubt I've finished writing about it either. 

Il Signor Bruschino

As tied up in Borough gossip I have been, I haven't been so completely consumed as to prevent my making the odd brief excursion to an oasis of sunshine and, well, lighter fare. One such was Rossini's deeply silly one act opera Il Signor Bruschino, staged at the Sydney Conservatorium last Friday and Saturday. 

There was time when I thought I'd never want to hear this opera again. That time was December 2005, when it was paired with Poulenc's La voix humaine in Melbourne. Yvonne Kenny sang the Poulenc, and since my terror of being late wouldn't allow me to arrive just in time for the second act, I sat through the Rossini five times. Twice would probably have sufficed. However, that was a long time ago, and I came to this production thoroughly refreshed, and willing to be confused all over again by the plot, which I never really understood in the first place. (You know something's awry when it takes more than a page of program notes to explain a one-act opera.)

I can say without hyperbole that I enjoyed — and laughed at — this Bruschino far more than I ever did at Opera Australia's. If there's one thing the Con does exceedingly well, it's comedy, and this show (directed by Brendan Carmody) was no exception. I did have the sense that the humour here was somewhat self-directed — that less comically gifted singers might have made less of the show — and it wasn't the tightest staging on the planet (though it was just about the sparsest), but honestly, when you're in tears of laughter over coloratura and a Tim Tam, what do rough patches matter? And History's Tiniest Rossini Orchestra, under Sadaharu Muramatsu, played with real sparkle. 

As with all Con operas, there were two casts for Bruschino. I saw Saturday's, for the simple reason that I was determined to see soprano Saira Luther again, having loved her in Rodelinda and missed her in Albert Herring. And since Saira herself very kindly (full disclosure moment here) provided me with a ticket, off to the Saturday performance I went, with no idea of the rest of the cast. I think I did well. Saira lived absolutely up to my expectations, with an adorably arch Sofia. Coloratura for miles, beautifully even production, and, every now and then, crystalline high note which could bring tears to a girl's eyes. I like her more than ever. And then there was the bonus of the afternoon. What do I find, upon opening my program, but that John Donohoe is our Bruschino padre (read: John Bolton Wood role). John's gendarme in Les mamelles de Tirésias is still one of the funniest things I've ever seen on a stage, and I also happen to rather like his voice, so to find he was not only in the opera, but essentially its star, was a total delight. He gave a superb performance, the best of his I've seen: desperately funny (his face when he lost the Tim Tam was priceless) and also exceedingly well sung. If he wasn't already high on my watchlist, he would be now. David Kymdell did the Rossini tenor thing quite impressively, holding his own between not one but two scene-stealing baritones, and his stage presence loosened up as the performance progressed. Javier Vilarino (the other scene-stealer) made an entrance-and-a-half, singing his opening aria from the audience, resplendent in white suite and red bow tie. I thought in fact that he might have sung himself out of voice by the end of it, but, the odd suspect moment aside, he got through nicely to the end of it, and he seemed to be having a ball with his fabulously camp take on Sofia's guardian (not, one suspects, father) Gaudenzio. Agnes Sarkis was a lovely Marianna, making much of what little Rossini gives her to sing. (He obviously hadn't discovered his mezzo fetish when he wrote this one.) David Hidden was a perfectly drawn Filiberto, sung with strong, flexible voice and impeccable comic timing; he and his fellow David also did a brilliant job of dancing daggily to their duet. (Have I mentioned how much I love it when characters dance to their singing? Directors, take note.) And Michael Butchard turned a nifty double turn, first as a useless Police Commissioner, and then, best of all, as the loutish Bruschino figlio, collapsing onto the stage with aplomb. 

It lasted just over an hour. Afterwards, I shopped idly for a couple of hours then went to be ruined again by Peter Grimes. A curious pair of operas, I know (although no more curious a pairing, perhaps than was the Poulenc, and at least I had a proper break between) but in a funny way they went well together. At the Rossini, I laughed till I cried; at Grimes, I cried till I cried. Both are good. I love the Con more than ever after this show, and can't wait till next year's shows. 

Peter Grimes

To whom does Opera Australia's new Peter Grimes belong? The first (and obvious and correct) answer is to Benjamin Britten. His genius is the fundamental reason why all of us who have seen this show are still reeling: without a trace of hyperbole, this opera is a great opera. Another answer — just as obvious — is that it belongs to Neil Armfield. It's OK, though. He hasn't appropriated it. He holds it in equal partnership with Britten. 

We can go further, though. This Peter Grimes must belong in some measure to Richard Hickox, who programmed it and who would have conducted it; and to whom, as Wanderer has pointed out, we must surely owe the casting of our beautiful Ellen Orford. It's trite but I'll say it just the same: he is there in spirit. It belongs, of course, to Opera Australia, as one of the company's finest achievements. (Such a bland term for something so rich.) It belongs to every member of the cast. It belongs to Crabbe the poet, and it belongs to Crabbe the character, written into the opera as a silent role and transformed by Armfield into an omnipresent ghost, grandfather and guardian angel. 

It belongs to us, the audience. I've rarely, if ever, felt such warmth and affection in an ovation as I did on opening night. Nor have I seen so many arms outstretched to applaud, as if we wanted to reach out and embrace the extraordinary group of artists who had just torn us so wonderfully to shreds. It also belongs to me. (And to you.) Forgive me if my writing on this opera is strange; if I write too little or too much, too often or too emotionally. I've never been so affected on every level by an opera before. Opera is what I do, it's my daily bread, and I had huge and definite expectations of this Grimes — but nevertheless, it has blindsided me, as if I never saw it coming. So you might find I'm just a little bit sensitive about it.

What struck me first — and what has stayed with me very strongly — is the reality of this Peter Grimes. Yes, the vast majority of what we see on the Opera Theatre stage is some kind of attempt to simulate reality; but Grimes doesn't attempt — it just is. All the signs of a show are there — some more obvious than others — and yet it seems like no show at all. That has a lot to do with Britten, of course; and it has a lot to with Armfield's direction, Ralph Myers's living, breathing sets, and Damien Cooper's perfect lighting. You can practically smell the sea air; I swear I did at one point.

And amazingly, that reality is achieved within a framework which could have resulted in extreme unreality. The opera takes place in several locations, indoors and out, but Armfield has moved all of the action into a village hall: a space which bears a close and deliberate resemblance to Opera Australia's own rehearsal venue, the Marrickville Town Hall. Even the scene in Peter's hut is played out on that hall's own, smaller stage, brought forward to fill the opera theatre's own proscenium arch. What's the more, the whole proceedings are watched over (and sometimes participated in) by Armfield's most daring touch, the kindly Dr Crabbe: he starts the show, he changes the set during the Interludes, he even opens the curtains on Grimes's stage-cum-hut. 

It could all have been so alienating, but it isn't. The hall might be Marrickville's cousin, but it also looks like every village hall, including the one you'd expect to find in the Borough circa 1945, the era in which Armfield has set his production. It makes me think of school fairs and prizegivings; it's so completely lifelike that even when the impossible happens, like Grimes dragging his boat across the front of it, there's little mental adjustment needed. Everything somehow makes sense. Including, for me, Dr Crabbe. He's already dividing people: some love him, some are ambivalent, some confused and some irritated. I, who have a tendency to fall unreservedly, love him. His presence, even at its most interventionist, seemed to me to reinforce, rather than detract from, Grimes's real existence. It was to him that Grimes's distracted utterances were directed, and when he comforted his creation — his child — or sat, drunk and depressed by that child's (both children's) fate, he seemed an on-stage surrogate for me and for all of us. Stuart Skelton's massive yet desperately fragile Peter Grimes was, at some level, a boy who needed a hug, and there, thank God, was Dr Crabbe to hold him, even if he didn't seem to feel it. 

So, to Stuart. He has come to us with so many expectations trailing behind (or ahead of) him. Not just the expectations of any tenor taking on such a significant and taxing role, but the expectations that come with a singer whose last attempt at that role had London reviewers comparing him favourably with Vickers, Langridge and Pears. It's as if we'd been sent a Mimi who'd been called the greatest since Freni — a huge weight upon one's artistic shoulders, but what a privilege for us to behold when the comparison holds true. And for Stuart, it does. He is worthy of his starry heritage, but he is not tied to it: he makes Peter Grimes all his own, and gives the kind of performance we've probably spent most of the season dreaming of. 

In both his singing and his acting, Stuart draws out unflinchingly the double nature of the character, brutal violence hand-in-hand with trembling softness. This is ambiguity at its most confronting: used not as a byword for misunderstood, but to create a character whose cruelty is as sincere as his kindness. He can soar powerfully, he can shout, he can sob; he can scale back to the sweetest, most lyrical pianissimo possible; and he can move so seamlessly through this considerable range that the singing he does is as natural as speaking. Stuart Skelton, our very own, is a singer who can (aided by Britten) make time stand still, which is what he does in his "Now the Great Bear and Pleiades" and again in his final scene — a mad scene which leaves even Natalie Dessay's bel canto heroines in the dust for sheer excruciating realism. I've only seen him perform it twice and yet it feels burned into my brain in his voice and in his person. 

Every time I talk about Susan Gritton, I seem to call her "our beautiful Ellen Orford". It's hard not to. Beautiful is what she is, in a deep-running way which you won't forget, once you've seen her. As with Stuart, after just two performances, I feel as if Susan has been Ellen Orford for as long as I've known who Ellen Orford is. I didn't know what to expect from her — I've heard her, intermittently, on various recordings (her sublime Ottone in Villa, conducted by Hickox, stands out) but they don't convey the live experience, not one bit. There is her voice, for a start: a soft, rounded soprano, sweet as they come but with immense reserves of power. She sings in two places at once, her voice rising to the heavens and yet remaining gorgeously grounded: her Ellen is radiant, good and strong, but she is real, not some idealised angel. Against the hugeness of the crowd, of the hall, and of Peter, she is small but steadfast. In her first duet with Skelton's Peter, she establishes herself and her character as equal partner, as strong in her own, quiet away as her rough-hewn Grimes. Her Embroidery aria is both beautiful and terribly painful. When she bursts into tears, so will you.

Peter Coleman-Wright's Balstrode is something of a revelation to me. He gives this greying sea-captain a depth and soulfulness which I simply did not expect. Opinion seems to vary, depending on which review you read, as to whether Balstrode should be classes as a principal or supporting role, but in Peter's case there is no question: his Balstrode is as vital and as three-dimensional as Grimes and Ellen. The growth in his character, from wry onlooker to involved participant and maybe the only source of moral support, is exquisitely played out, and so fully developed that I suspect he seems to be onstage much more than he actually is — his presence is felt even in his absence. And I don't think I have ever heard Peter's voice sound better or more purely lovely than here. It undergoes the same transformation as his character, beginning solid and tough, but as the performance progresses it opens up' it softens, and gains in warmth. He avoids every cliché, and brings out all the heart and humour (he's very funny) in his character. I'm happy to call this the best performance I've ever seen him give.

Meanwhile, among the ranks of the definitely supporting, the support offered is superlative. Elizabeth Campbell, last seen this season (although I didn't see her) singing Amneris, shifts gears completely to become a dark and twitchy Mrs Sedley: respectable lady, crime fetishist and laudanum addict. The characterful strangeness of her voice laces her words with a healthy hint of malice, and she gives a memorable portrayal, no more overdrawn than the libretto would have her and quite striking in her "Murder most foul it is". Catherine Carby is a relatively young and lightly sung Auntie. The production doesn't underline her more dubious activities too heavily: she's mostly publican, with only a hint here and there of what goes on upstairs. She eases her way into the role, coming into her own in the women's quartet. Her relationship with Balstrode comes across well, too, although she hasn't his hidden depths. Taryn Fiebig and Lorina Gore are too delicious for words with their matching brown hair and fabulous dresses (by Tess Schofield, who deserves huge praise for all of her costumes) and their singing is just as pretty. They're such an inseparable pair, both vocally and physically (they hold hands much of the time) that I won't try to do so: as a double act, they're just what they should be. Like Auntie, their downstairs behaviour is mostly on the harmless, almost innocent side; but in their physical interactions with men (first Balstrode, then Swallow) hint at what's beneath their outward girlishness. 

Two Young Artists turn in especially fine performances. Andrew Moran's sly, grinning Ned Keene is a welcome speck of comic relief among the bleakness, and his easy, lithe baritone is always a pleasure. And tenor David Corcoran, who seems to go from strength to strength with every performance, is an absolutely splendid Bob Boles — he even vomits on cue. If you didn't already know, I don't think you'd necessarily pick David as Young Artist: his performance here has all the grit and polish of a seasoned professional. Jud Arthur is in especially resplendent voice as Hobson, intoing that very first "Peter Grimes" and later showing off his percussion skills, as he beats the drum which calls the mob to action. Richard Anderson is a lean-voiced, breathy and suitably officious Swallow, disgracing himself very nicely in his dalliance with the Nieces. Kanen Breen is prim and uncharacteristically restrained (the hand of Neil?) as the Reverend Horace Adams; this kind of repertoire is just right for his voice, and he's a striking visual presence, too, so long and thin in his black cassock. 

Two extremely talented actors take the two silent roles. Nicholas Bakopoulos-Cooke is just heart-rending as the tiny, ill-fated apprentice John. He mightn't speak, but the expressiveness of his face and gestures speaks volumes, and he depicts the child's fear very convincingly. I challenge you stay dry-eyed when he breaks down in tears at Ellen's questions. Peter Carroll's Dr Crabbe is mesmerising. Make what you like of the role itself, and its function in this production, but there's no denying the brilliance of his performance. He embodies his invented role as if it were the most inevitable role in the world, conveying Armfield's conception with such commitment that he seemed to me to slot quite naturally into the world of the opera. I never found him distracting — if anything, I sometimes forgot he was still there at his desk — and when he did take centre stage, there was always a reason, and every moment seemed keyed precisely to the music. 

The chorus takes on one of its biggest challenges of the season and emerges triumphant. Whether scattered about the hall making nets, or massed at the front of the stage crying "Peter Grimes!" for all they're worth, they are as strong an ensemble as anyone could wish for. We know from last year's Billy Budd how well the men's chorus can handle Britten, and now the women prove themselves likewise impressive. And they do all of this while also faithfully recreating Borough life in all its tiny details — in the early scenes especially, you can look anywhere on the stage and see some believable business going on. There are more opportunities, too, for a solo line here and there, and these are all handled very well indeed.

With so much magic happening onstage, what good fortune to have a man in the pit who can handle it and cultivate it. I'm sure we'd all prefer Mark Wigglesworth's company début to have happened under happier circumstances, but the intelligence and poetry of his leadership are a worthy tribute to Richard Hickox. He negotiates this complex, precarious landscape (seascape) of a score with eerie grace, exploring the opera's intricacies without neglecting its monumental sweep, and evoking Borough life as perceptively as Armfield does. We heard the AOBO play the Four Sea Interludes earlier this year, in concert under Sir Richard Armstrong, and while that was an impressive performance, they're better still in context and with Wigglesworth in charge: the shifting, translucent quality which was missing from that earlier reading, he restores. The response to him, on opening night especially, was incredible: when he took a bow before the third act, I half expected a standing ovation to spring up then and there.

So much written. So much (so much) still unsaid, and much of that unsayable. There will, I fear, be more: I'm planning to attend all four remaining performances. I hope as many people as possible will also attend at least one of them. It took us almost the entire year to get here, but this is without a doubt Opera Australia's show of the year. And it's so much more than that. It's an experience — musical, theatrical, emotional, everything-al — which, if you've made it as far as this without booking a ticket, you simply must have. Nothing I've said here does it justice. It's magic and it's real life, all at once. It's a masterpiece.

Così fan tutte

I thought I would wait until next weekend to pay OA's new Cosi a second visit, but as it clashes with the Conservatorium production of Il Signor Bruschino — and as I was starting to feel restless and rudderless after three weeks away from the opera theatre — I decided on Friday to see the following evening's performance. Playing it fast and loose paid off: I showed up at the box office at 4 o'clock, asked for E-reserve ($47) and was promptly offered C-reserve for $55. Very nice. 

Much was made in the advance publicity for this show of the cast having been "hand picked" by director Jim Sharman. So if it's Jim we have to thank for plucking Sian Pendry out of bit parts and casting her as Dorabella, then thank him I most certainly do. I'm so pleased to discover I'm not the only one who's wanted to hear her in larger roles, and in this role I think she's proving us right. There are rough edges here and there, and her diction went AWOL on opening night (it was better last night), but it's a warm and distinctive voice and one I'm keen to hear again. Opera Australia has a wealth of gorgeous mezzos, it's true, but Sian has something unique to offer and I'm glad the company is fostering it. Besides which, she's hilarious: her confused facial expressions (which will be visible in close-up come Wednesday night) are one of the funniest parts of the show — as is her champagne-swilling "Smanie implacabile". 

Rachelle Durkin's Fiordiligi is the best thing she's done for OA since I went mad for her Alcina. She comes up with convincingly neurotic Fiordiligi — funny enough to spend three hours with, serious enough to make her "Per pieta" quite believable. In fact the aria is one of this production's most beautiful moments. After all the running around and confetti-throwing which precedes it, for this touching aria, everything comes to a standstill: Fiordiligi just kneels at the front of the stage and sings, and doesn't move until the music compels movement. The way Rachelle sings it is pretty extraordinary, too: very stripped back, soft and exposed. Her agile, silvery voice is irresistible in this music. 

Tiffany Speight is just adorable as Despina, and of the three women, she might just be the most stylish singer: she's very much the mistress of this sort of Mozart role, and all that recit — in Italian or English — just rolls off her tongue. She seems to be having a lot of fun with the role — and with Jim's take on it, which gives her a fun, vaguely feminist (though possibly not the kind of feminism Germain Greer would condone) slant — and the sparkle is infectious. The only problem with Despina is that it's not a role built to show off the inherent beauty of a voice, but the loveliness of Tiffany's shines determinedly through all the same — that is, when one's not distracted by the spangled catsuit, the pink mop, and the striptease, all of which are brilliant. 

Of the boys, I think I need to give first mention to Henry Choo. I know I haven't always been wildly enthusiastic about all of Henry's performances, but that's all the more reason to emphasise how excellent I think he is as Ferrando. His voice has rarely sounded better: not just in the obviously beautiful "Un aura amorosa", but in a bright and forceful "Tradito, schernito", which I actually thought was his best moment. And apparently he doesn't actually need to breathe, which is useful for a tenor. His acting is likewise the best I've seen from him: his loopy, clownish Ferrando is marvellous, with an appealing talent for falling over, and despite the ludicrous green outfit and appalling facial hair, he manages to hold onto just enough human frailty that when he's crushed — he really does seem crushed. 

Shane Lowrencev is possibly even funnier as Guglielmo. Hard to say exactly why: he's just one of those people who is funny just by being there. His height (sorry, one day I'll manage to write about him without mentioning it, but for heaven's sake, he's 6'8!) is a part of that but it isn't the whole story: his wonderfully snakeish physicality and his wicked way with a comic lines also add considerably to his hilariousness. As does his voice itself, I think: that rich, resonant and potentially very solemn bass lends an ironic sort of gravity to the silliness he's obliged to spout forth. The staging of his "Donne mie" is pure genius: he sings it not just to women in general, but to specific women in the audience, who have the houselights and a camera turned on them. (It's not really as cruel as it sounds.) I do miss some of that booming quality which was on show in his Polyphemus (a true bass role) but he handles the higher tessitura here very nicely all the same. 

Oh my. What is the world coming to when José Carbo is the last singer I mention in a review? Too late now to place him first — and it wouldn't make very much sense if I did — but he retains his place among my favourites. I've read a few comments here and there to the effect that José seemed uncomfortable singing in English, which I confess astonishes me: I thought his delivery of the translated text was possibly the best in the show. The only problem — this much I will concede — is that sometimes he does it so well that it sounds more like speech than opera. But the role is recit-heavy in any language, and what I loved about José's Alfonso was that he didn't sound English — he sounded Australian, twangy vowels and all. And when he does get to unleash that stunner of a voice, well, it's bliss, however fleeting. He does a sterling job as the purple-clad ringmaster of this amorous circus, an advisor whose cynicism is the product of experience rather than age. Can you believe we get to hear both José and Peter C-W as the Count Almaviva next year? Spoilt or what?

The cast was hand picked. I don't think the conductor was, but it seems like Simon Hewett was just the right choice anyway. On opening night he dashed in and started the overture even before the lights had gone down or the audience had stopped talking — a touch I loved, a sort of ambush in keeping with the spirit of the evening. Last night's entrance was more conventional: he arrived, took a bow, and began. Oh well. Either way, he leads this opera with fitting blend of enthusiasm and refinement. It's quite fast-paced, but not sinfully so: the soft, floaty moments are left intact, including that trio, which doubles as a wedding dance. The chorus has so little to sing it seems slightly disingenuous to heap praise on them: but they're always good, and they're good in this. 

The production is worth a post or two on its own. In fact, I might use next week's telecast as an excuse to give it just that. I love its wit and its exuberant celebration of love in all its troublesome forms, and I love its endearing theatricality. Show is layered upon show: two Japanese newlyweds watch the lovers, we watch them and the lovers, and everybody (the lovers, the newlyweds and the audience) shows up at some point on the big screen at the back. Singers sing to themselves, to each other, to the newlyweds and to the audience: sometimes all within the space of ten minutes. Nor is it just the singers who are celebrated by this hyper-theatrical (and hyperactive) show. Sharman's Cosi makes stars of the whole creative team: lighting, sets, costumes and video design all have their share of the limelight, and somehow, they take it without overshadowing the singing. 

Somehow. The way I've described it, it probably sounds like a mess, and yet it most decidedly isn't. It's sheer delight, a Cosi presented with a dash of lunacy and a lot of love, where beauty and insanity mix freely, take liberties with one another, and blend together for a Happily Ever After which can't help but leave you smiling.

Albert Herring

It has been pointed out to me that I've neglected — forgotten might be the more honest term — to say anything here about the Sydney Conservatorium production of Britten's Albert Herring, which I saw just over two weeks ago. I'm too late now to encourage anybody else to go — but I believe it more or less sold out, so that probably doesn't matter too much anyway, and in any case, the show is definitely worth a mention.

I blush to confess I arrived with more or less zero prior knowledge of the music of Albert Herring. But it's Britten, and Britten and I are very close friends, so as soon as it started it was as if I knew it already. Perhaps I expected something a little lighter — a little sillier, even — but it was all kinds of thrilling to discover the richness and dark corners of this quirky little opera. 

David Commisso seemed born for the title role: the moment he shuffled out, everything about him simply was Albert, and he made his way through the part's increasingly taxing music with clear, sweet tone and excellent diction. Nor was he the only excellent male in the cast. Simon Halligan was a marvellously well-acted, kindhearted Sid, Simon Gilkes very convincing as the stuffy Mr Upfold, while David Hidden's beautifully sung Mr Gedge was especially striking, with a talent for making himself understood in even the most tangled ensemble. There was also a gorgeously gruff turn from John Donohoe as Superintendant Budd. Anna Yun sang with rippling, silky tone as Lady Billows. Admittedly she didn't sound at all English or especially matronly, but it was a very appealing performance even so, and she managed, despite her youth, to look the part exceedingly well. Yun was flanked by the dour and officious Florence Pike of Celeste Haworth, who I suspect was not very well; she usually sounds much better. Simone Easthope's Miss Wordsworth was a delight, sung with sparkle and wit, and acted to utter perfection: the scene in which she rehearses the children for their roles at the crowning ceremony was especially hilarious. And speaking of hilarity: Erika Simons, Ali Manifold and Jennifer Bonner as the children in question (Emmie, Cis and Harry respectively) were, individually and collectively, shameless scene-stealers — in the best possible way. Rachel Bate was absolutely lovely, in voice and presence, as Nancy; Agnes Sarkis had a few diction issues but was still suitably blustery — and I understand English is not her first language, which makes her performance here all the more impressive.

Standards of production are generally high at the Con and this was no exception. Tom Healey's production was smart, straightforward and very funny, and made clever use of the Music Workshop stage. Gabrielle Logan's sets were fabulously evocative: a parlour and then a grocery store, brought to life before our eyes and framed by a giant map of England. I was especially impressed by the slickly choreographed set changes, which happened in full view of the audience — the stage has no curtain — without detracting from the orchestral interludes which accompanied them. And above all, let us all hail Stephen Mould, who conducted the SCM Chamber Orchestra with his usual quicksilver brilliance and deep-digging lyricism. Is it mere coincidence, do you think, that every time I run into Stephen Mould, he's conducting one of my favourite composers? First it was Poulenc (La voix humaine in Melbourne), then Janacek (the last two performances of The Makropulos Secret) and now Britten. He's now at OA conducting The Mikado — perhaps he's just the Arthur Sullivan revelation I need. 

Like all Con operas, this one was double cast. I wish I'd had a chance to see the other cast: not just for comparison, but for the chance to see this terribly charming show a second time. By way of consolation, however, there's another slice of comedy on the horizon: Il Signor Bruschino opens in just eleven days. I'll be there. Will you?

Eugene Onegin

The Antipodean opera world is a small one, apparently. I'm just back from NZ Opera's Eugene Onegin, which featured the conductor of OA's Manon Lescaut, the director of their Baroque Masterpieces, a Tatyana whom I heard for the first time singing with a youth choir in Dunedin and a Madame Larina whom I first encountered when she judged the local vocal competitions. And I bet I have mutual Facebook friends with almost the entire cast. [I just spot-checked one of them. Six mutual friends. Kevin Bacon, eat your heart out.]

Tchaikovsky is one of those composers whose operas have been slowly but surely creeping up on me. I had eyed up NZ Opera's Onegin season from afar and thought it might just be worth finally making the trip — then I saw Renée and Dmitri in the Met production and knew I had to experience this opera in person as soon as possible. So while I continue to wait for Opera Australia to stage it (or any other Tchaikovsky) I have for the moment been sated by this beautiful production.

The beauty begins with the sets. Genevieve Blanchett's design exploits the height of the Aotea Centre stage to astonishing effect, populating it first with trees (leafless, of course) and then with pillars which seem to extend into the sky like Jack's beanstalk. Blanchett does a marvellous job of capturing in visual terms that uneasy wavering between wintry austerity and impassioned opulence which permeates both score and story.  Patrick Nolan's direction walks hand-in-hand with the show's aesthetic values. He puts the opera's tale of woe across in simple, elegant and psychologically focused lines, keeping everything basically in period without making a stodgy period piece of it. A few of the reviews I've read have questioned his constraining characters to chairs at key moments — Tatyana, for instance, remains seated at her writing desk throughout her Letter Scene — but to me it seemed a rather nice visual metaphor for the social constraints which everyone in this opera faces at one point or another, and, at least in Tatyana's case, made her musical outpourings all the more dramatic.

Beauty at its purest and most powerful came, of course, from the singing, and in particular from Anna Leese. It's been a joy to watch Anna's rapid rise from local to global sensation, and her NZ Opera début, is a triumph. Her singing mingles radiant sweetness with a steely core, it's flexible and extraordinarily expressive, and she had no problem filling the theatre's difficult acoustic. The youthful freshness of her voice was just right for Tatyana, and it was coupled with a convincingly young — and occasionally gauche — stage presence: she's adorable, and yet you can see why Onegin would overlook her. Even when she had become the Princess Gremina, she retained that slightly shy, unassuming quality, and it made her all the more likeable. True, she didn't come across as hugely tormented and Russian, but there was a soft fragility to her which was just as touching. 

William Dazeley in the title role is more difficult to write about — and that's not his fault, it's the fault of the dreaded lurgy. It was announced before the curtain went up that Dazeley had been suffering from the flu for several days (I knew this already) and that he would "very gallantly" sing, but might not be at his best. And it's fair to say he definitely wasn't at his best. All things considered, he coped admirably, but his struggles became ever more audible. Matters came to a head in the penultimate scene, as he seemed to muster every last scrap of voice left just to make it through. It sounded like he'd gone as far as he could go — and sure enough, as he re-entered for his last confrontation with Tatyana, so too did a music stand and his cover, Daniel O'Connor, who had earlier made a brief appearance as the Captain and now supplied a much healthier voice for Onegin's final exertions. All of which makes it hard to comment meaningfully on Dazeley's singing, but at its best it was smooth and strong, if perhaps a bit lighter than I might expect an Onegin to be — although again, that might just have been the illness. He was a mostly convincing partner to Anna's Tatyana, though slightly prone to overreaction; he's a bit more Bingley than Darcy, perhaps, but still nice and haughty.

Happily the rest of the cast seemed to have escaped Dazeley's flu. Kristen Darragh was a bubbly and appealing Olga. It's the kind of flighty role in which you'd expect to hear a soubrette, so Tchaikovsky's choice of a mezzo takes a little getting used to —  but Darragh brought a lightness of touch to her earthy tone, and she was ultimately quite persuasive. And in fact, when the going gets tough, it's good to have a voice which suggests a slightly darker undercurrent to Olga's lightheartedness — a frilly coloratura would be quite out of place. Roman Schulackoff was clearly at ease in his own language and he was a lyrical and focused Lensky, predictably — but justifiably — earning enthusiastic applause for his "Kuda, kuda". At times his voice sounded a little thinner than I'd have liked, but he was nevertheless a stylish vocal presence.

Two other members of the supporting cast had special significance for me. Martin Snell is a name I've always known — not just because he's an opera singer, but because he's an opera singer from Dunedin. A hometown boy who made good. Which means he's probably one of the first opera singers I ever heard of, and yet this, to my knowledge, was the first time I'd ever heard him. What a start to make: he was a fantastic Gremin. Helped, admittedly, by having some of the best music in the opera to sing — but it's all in how you sing it, and he sang it beautifully, with exquisite control and low notes for days. And Patricia Wright, our Madame Larina, is of course the very first soprano for whom I travelled. More than once. The last time I attended an NZ Opera production, it was for her Donna Anna; this time she had a smaller and more, well, matronly role but it was still a thrill to see and hear her. The costume might not have been glamorous, but her voice was: suitably warm and motherly, but with a sparkle, too, which lent credence to the character's romantic recollections of her youth. I wished the role were larger, but any Patricia is a delight. 

It was also nice to see our Rosemary Gunn representing Australia as Tatyana's slightly hopeless but well-meaning nurse, and Andrew Glover put in a rather striking appearance as the foppish Monsier Triquet — he sang very well indeed, although I wasn't too keen on the character's jokey interaction with the conductor, which seemed out of keeping with the rest of the show. That conductor, incidentally, was none other than Alexander Polianichko, who worked wonders with Manon Lescaut here a couple of months ago and brought a similar brand of magic to Onegin. It seemed at times a fast-moving account, but not rushed, and he brought out all kinds of lush texture in the orchestra. Perhaps he could have supported his singers a little more at times, but then again, perhaps not — they all looked after themselves very nicely, and really, that acoustic is a problem no matter what you do. The chorus was excellent — hardly surprising when you start perusing the list of choristers, it's full of up-and-comers. The choreography was all a bit awkward, though; particularly the very odd chair dance in the third act. 

I often wonder how the opera fanatics of Auckland and Wellington manage to survive when the national company only offers two mainstage productions a year. It can't be easy. But if all of those shows are as musically and theatrically polished as this one, then maybe it's not as hard as I imagine. While not exactly devastating, the beauty of this Onegin runs deeper than the pretty frocks and elegant sets, and it's substantial sustenance for any addict. The Auckland season has already finished, but the Wellington season runs from the 10th to the 17th of October — so if you happen to be in the vicinity, I'd strongly suggest obtaining a ticket. This is a dark beauty well worth seeking out.

I Capuleti e i Montecchi

I've already witnessed one skirmish over Orpha Phelan's treatment of I Capuleti e i Montecchi, and taken part in what might have been another, had we not both been in uncharacteristically conciliatory moods. I'm sure there will be others. And yet... it's really not that bad. I admit I rolled my eyes a little at the big grey target which greeted us in place of a curtain, and the use of the overture as background to a murder of a hostage by a child soldier is perhaps belabouring the point a little, but I think it would be a great shame to dismiss this production on the basis of that first impression. Anyone who sees the greyness, or the guns, or the angular sets, and immediately consigns the whole show to the Modern & Ugly pile risks missing a lot that is Revelatory & Beautiful about the it. Some of it works and some of it doesn't, but I think it's much more of a hit than a miss; my own initial misgivings were swiftly overcome, and I ended up liking it a great deal. I even sort of liked the wacky bungee-cord ballet, in which a "Giulietta double" is thrown about and violated by various Capuleti, although nobody else seems to.

The production is set in an unidentified civil war zone (though it's hard not to look at the name of the director and assume Northern Ireland) and I can't describe the set any better than the Mighty McCallum already has:  "basically a parquet floor progressively torn up by strife". The context inevitably politicises the opera a bit, but not as much as you might think: the love story is still the heart of this show, and the violent contemporary setting just makes it stand out with greater intensity. And given that the plot itself has already provided a jolt of unfamiliarity by telling a pre-Shakespearean version of the R&J story, it seems really quite fitting that the production should widen that gap even further.

Perhaps my favourite thing about this production, though, is that the characters' behaviour matches their setting. This doesn't always happen. One of the things that irritated me about Elke Neidhardt's Don Giovanni, for instance, was that when her characters weren't doing obvious Modern things (like snorting cocaine) they immediately reverted to Traditional Mozart Gesture: in the world of narcotics and casual sex which she was trying to evoke, why on earth did Giovanni and Zerlina still sing "La ci darem la mano" from opposite sides of the room? But in Capuleti, everybody moves and acts like they're really living in the setting Phelan has given them. The odd stagey clinch aside, the two lovers interact believably as a modern day couple, heightening the immediacy which their new setting has given them. 

So much talk about the production side of things, you'd think it was the most important aspect of this Capuleti. But come on, this is bel canto, it's about voices, and whatever the underlying politics of the production, I don't think they get in the way of the music, though some will no doubt disagree. Admittedly it's a bit of a risk to ask your Giulietta to start her "Eccomi in lieta vesta" on the floor, with her back to the audience (especially when the Giulietta in question has quite a small voice to begin with) but doing so also concentrates one's attention more closely on the voice qua voice, and she turns around reasonably promptly anyway. All in all the production, for all that it reads greater meaning into the drama of the libretto than is perhaps really there, doesn't mess too much with the musical traditions of the opera. It still gets to do what it's meant to do: show off gorgeous, virtuosic singing. 

Catherine Carby leads the charge, erupting into the first scene with elegant determination. It's a delight to see a mezzo who can be convincing in a pants role without swaggering all over the place: she plays Romeo as a strong but sensitive hero with just a touch of youthful angst and no need to stride about proving his (or her) masculinity. It's true she's a little on the light side, and some of the role's lower-lying passages perhaps need a more truly contralto-ish voice, but she warms beautifully to the role just the same. It mightn't be the largest sound but it's refined, focused and precise, and her performance is admirably paced, so that she's convincing in her early scenes with Giulietta but still has enough fire in her to make the finale compelling and tragic. There were times when I might have liked a slightly richer tone, but I think that's well within her grasp: for the most part she was pretty fabulous and I'm going to do my best to hear her again and see what else she can do with the part. 

Funnily enough, our travesti Romeo is a much more convincing soldier than his tenor rival. Henry Choo does have a lovely voice and it's quite well suited to this sort of music, but his perpetual bounce and boyish smile are seriously at odds with the character. Some allowances should be made for the fact that he was substituting (Aldo di Toro was announced as unable to perform) but I've seen Henry in quite a few roles now and he's always more or less like this. Especially in this production, where Tebaldo is characterised as a ruthless gangster, we needed a genuinely scary criminal type, and Henry isn't the tenor for the job. I think Aldo could be, though, so I hope he comes back. Stephen Bennett's Capellio, on the other hand, is one father figure you definitely don't want to meet in a dark alley, his snarl of a baritone just as strikingly authoritative as his stage presence. The flicker of complexity which he brings to the character, despite his obvious mean streak and his cold-hearted treatment of Giulietta, just makes him all the more impressive. As Lorenzo (the family retainer who's a sort of conflation of Shakespeare's Nurse and Friar Laurence) Gennadi Dubinsky is a kindly and solidly sung presence, if at times slightly detached. The chorus (possibly doing double duty as both Capulets and Montagues?) is as dynamic and committed a presence as ever, and their reverent, shimmering singing in Giulietta's funeral procession is one of the opera's most devastatingly gorgeous moments.

But, while I don't want to take anything away from the excellent Catherine Carby, I can't not say it: this show belongs to Emma Matthews. Fragile, tender and mesmerisingly lovely, her Giulietta is a beacon of peace and purity amidst an ocean of angry men. There is plenty of fantastic and thrilling singing in the first scene, but it is Emma's "Oh quante volte" which is the turning point, lifting the opera to another plane. And it is primarily Emma who keeps it there, singing with such exquisite tonal beauty that you'd call her angelic, were she not such a real and sensual Giulietta. Emma is not always the world's most convincing actress but she seems to respond well to strong direction, and Phelan has drawn out what I think is the most persuasive and engaging performance I've ever seen from Emma, as interesting as it is immaculately sung. There are even moments where she opts for the dramatically appropriate sound over the pretty one: not a choice I immediately associate with Emma, but one I'm very glad to hear her make.

I've seen Emma partnered to a string of tenors, but it turns out her best leading man yet is a woman. The pairing of Emma and Catherine is an inspired bit of casting. Their voices are ideally suited to one another: both of similar weight (neither drowns the other out) but each of such distinct character as to make for some stunning duets, the two threads of sound never becoming one, but rather entwining about one another to intoxicating effect. The chemistry between them is palpable. One believes in their love, no mean feat when portraying perhaps the most famous couple of all, and their final scene is truly moving: little wonder both singers appeared to be in tears as they took their bows. 

I can't say I was quite so taken with Richard Bonynge's conducting. Obviously it would be silly to take issue with the man's understanding of the idiom — his credentials in this repertoire are not be beaten — but I can't help wondering if that very familiarity with the style is letting him down. This was quite a beautiful and sensitive reading but it was too much on the timid side for me, and could have benefited from a degree or three more vitality and risk-taking spirit. I know Bonynge is the master when it comes to looking after his singers, but perhaps that goes too far sometimes: with Emma's and Catherine's smallish voices coupled to an orchestra who sometimes sounded very small indeed, I began to have the sense of a Capuleti in miniature, delicate and pretty but just a bit mousier than it really needed to be.

Shakespeare's version it might not be, but this is still a Romeo and Juliet — still the tale of an iconic romance — and as such, rises and falls on the central couple even more than your typical operatic love story. Emma and Catherine have a lot to live up to, and together, they carry the show beautifully. In fact perhaps I was wrong. The show doesn't belong entirely to Emma. It belongs to EmmaAndCatherine, an inseparable duo, and to their touching depiction of luminous young love.

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. 

Fidelio

I posted briefly and breathlessly about Fidelio the day after it opened. Usually by now I would have written something longer about it but, quite apart from the lack of time, I wasn't sure there was really anything much to add. It's very rare that I manage to say everything I want to in a single paragraph, but this one came pretty close. That said, I'm still me, so there is more to say. 

I liked Elizabeth Stannard's last minute Leonore enough that, having decided I needed to see the show again, I booked for the very next performance on the off chance she'd still be singing. She was, and I continued to like her very much. Her voice does occasionally get swamped (more in Act I than Act II) and her acting is a little bit Dickensian urchin meets Cherubino, but she's still mightily impressive, and would be even without the special circumstances. 

However, the soprano I'm saving my best adjectives for is our Marzelline. Lorina Gore is completely fabulous. Marzelline has the distinct advantage of singing one my favourite arias in the whole repertoire, but Lorina won me over well before we got to that. Just her opening tiff with Jaquino was enough. She's girlish and spirited, but never silly, and she slices beautifully through all that orchestration without sounding effortful or harsh: she's always audible and always adorable. And she handles that aria (which always has me in tears) beautifuly, then promptly outdoes herself in the quartet, where her radiant singing and the dreamy look in her eyes are just heartbreaking.

It's just rave after rave with this show. Who next? Julian Gavin is extraordinary as Florestan. As good as he was in Butterfly, I still was not expecting that clear, strong, beautiful sound which emerged from the dark depths at the beginning of Act Two. Nor was I expecting him to tackle that unsingable first aria so magnificently. He's dignified and sensitive and when the going gets tough, his singing gets sensational. He's a genuinely heroic Florestan. Colour me stunned. I can't wait to hear whatever he sings for us next: I suspect it might be Massenet's Des Grieux, which is role I would love to see him in.

Stephen Smith is an utter delight as Jaquino. He's a natural actor, always engaged with the action even when he's not singing, or singing only in ensemble (case in point: the end of Act I of Manon Lescaut, where his Edmondo actually manages to draw one's attention away from Teddy) and his light, bright tenor seem to get more interesting with every role. Stephen was sick for the second performance, however, so instead we heard Andrew Brunsdon. And I have to say, while he might not be as immediately adorable as Stephen, he may actually be a better vocal fit for the role: the sound is stronger and more Germanic. He also looks very German. Actually, almost disconcertingly so. Meanwhile, Conal Coad is his usual amiable self, a warm and paternal Rocco with a voice to match. He's lovely in the fun of the opening scenes and just as engaging when events take a more dramatic turn. 

Even the smallest roles in this Fidelio have been impressively cast. Martin Buckingham and Andrew Jones are our two solo-ing prisoners, and both sing very well indeed. Particularly Jones, whose luminous baritone was a bit of a revelation to me. The chorus en masse are just as excellent, in fact probably more so. There are really not many sounds in the world to beat that of the men of OA's chorus in unison: here, as in Billy Budd, they are magnificent. And of course, there's Warwick Fyfe right at the end as the magnanimous Don Fernando, very noble and authoritative and for once not really gormless at all. I will say it once again, though: he looks like Napoleon. It isn't just the costume, although that helps.

Yes, you have seen through my cunning plan, I am indeed saving Peter Coleman-Wright for last. That's what you do with the best, isn't it? There are a lot of performances to be excited about in this show, but none quite so electrifying as Peter's Don Pizarro. Over dinner before the show, we were discussing Australian Scarpias, and neither of us having seen Peter in the role, we wondered how well he could pull off pure evil. Well, his Pizarro answered our question in about two seconds flat. He's absolutely terrifying. He delivers his opening speech with the menace and perfect German of a movie Nazi and then moves into an absolutely bloodcurdling "Ha! welch' ein Augenblick" which is truly one of the scariest things I've ever seen on that stage. The rest of his performance is at the same superbly malevolent level, his acting and singing so dark and so compelling that one can't help but be drawn to him, irredeemable as he is. And he tops it all off by very charmingly playing up the villain act in the curtain calls: on opening night, he met the audience's pantomime booing with a suitably melodramatic swirl of his cape, and at the following performance, raised his arms skyward like some mad dictator. He is brilliant. If the rest of the show were a disaster, it would still be worth seeing just for his Pizarro.

Not done yet, but nearly there. Just two more raves. Jonathan Darlington has caused me to fall quite swooningly in love with the AOBO. Beethoven helps too, of course. They sound so sublime in the overture that at the second performance, I thought: if this was it, and there was no singing, that really would be just fine. Once the singing starts, of course, that feeling subsides, but only a little: this is still some of the most beautiful playing I think I've heard from this orchestra. 

My final words of praise are for the production team. John Gunter's design is lavish and bold and a wonder to behold, especially the towering, brutal sets. There's an ingenious set change for the final scene: very impressive, although I can't quite bring myself to join with those actually giving it its own round of applause. Serious kudos too to lighting designer Nigel Levings: there's a lot in this libretto about light and darkness, and his imaginative lighting engages nicely with all of that. 

However, it is to Cathy Dadd that I really doff my non-existent hat. Michael Hampe's production is seventeen years old and completely traditional: the sort of thing which could quite easily lose its magic in revival and end up unfocused and dull. But this Fidelio is none of those things. It's vibrant and downright riveting theatre, just as vivid as if it were a brand new production. That's helped by the presence of so many individually excellent performances, of course, but Dadd deserves high praise indeed for the way she's drawn all that brilliance together into such a triumphant whole. I said it before and I'll say it again: See This Show. 

Ariadne auf Naxos

In the midst of half a dozen (or half a million, so it seemed) other performances last week, I made the fleetingest of visits to Melbourne for opening night of Victorian Opera's Ariadne auf Naxos. Richard Strauss alone is temptation enough to travel, but my chief reason — or at least, my initial reason — for making the trip was, as usual, slightly more divacentric. Ever since I sat up and took notice of Jacqueline Dark as Tisbe in La Cenerentola, she's been a regular feature in my fantasy casting games — and one role which I kept imagining her in was Strauss's Komponist. Sigh, I thought: I'd love that, but how likely is Opera Australia to stage Ariadne? 

Well, I still don't have an answer to that question. But when I discovered that Richard Gill had read my thoughts and cast Jacqui in his company's Ariadne, I felt I really had to go. Between then and now, other reasons have arisen. More sensible ones. Like the chance to see a fabulous opera by one of my favourite composers. And the chance finally to see Victorian Opera in action. So while Jacqui was certainly the motivating factor, in the end it turned out just to be a nice little trip to see a different company in a different city, and with or without the diva, it would have been worthwhile.

I can't claim to be crazy about James McCaughey's staging. I've always thought that one of the extraordinary things about Ariadne is that, despite the fact that the concept of the simultaneous entertainments is absurd — and despite that the principals acknowledge as much in the Prologue — somehow the meeting between Zerbinetta and Ariadne (and between their respective musical and psychological worlds) does actually result in something quite beautiful and interesting and maybe even revelatory. 

McCaughey seemed to disagree, because he apparently did everything he could to keep them apart. Ariadne hung around for the very beginning of Zerbinetta's aria, but then quietly slipped offstage and left her to it, so that the entire scene was staged with only the comic troupe onstage. Gone was the sense that the group were improvising themselves into an existing opera seria. Instead it was opera and cabaret in alternation: the two entertainments might as well have been staged back to back after all, for all the interaction they had. It didn't help that he seemed to have lavished all his creative energy upon the music hall antics of Zerbinetta & co, leaving Ariadne with nothing much to do except circle her rock while Bacchus stood on it, looking heroic. 

The Prologue was quite charmingly realised, however: rather like watching No, No, Nanette or something of the sort, all Art Deco sets, girls with bobbed hair and men in their shirtsleeves and suspenders. It was nice picture of backstage chaos. Zerbinetta and her troupe were especially well done — shingled starlet and her back up boys — and there was a fantastically imperious turn by Grant Smith in the spoken role of the Haushofmeister. I'd have assumed he was a native speaker were it not for the name. 

Strong singing throughout the Prologue, more or less. The beginning is so like a play it took me a little while to really process it as opera, although Gary Rowley certainly made a favourable vocal impression as the Music Master. But the heart of the Prologue (and the best of the music) is the Composer, and Jacqui Dark was a total delight, moving engagingly between the ridiculous and the sublime, from youthful impetuosity to the rapture of an artist at work. That big, beautiful voice of hers just bloomed, opening up to the role's soaring climaxes with warmth and infectious energy. If I needed any more proof that she's underutilised by the national company, this was it: this is one classy singer, and she deserves far better than the bit parts she's getting.

The one great tragedy of Ariadne is that it offers us a plum mezzo role in the first half, only to snatch it away in the second. But if anything could console me for the absence of Jacqui, it was our Ariadne and our Bacchus. These are not easy roles to cast, but Victorian Opera managed to do so quite magnificently. Elizabeth Stannard was not a name familiar to me, but it seems she's making quite a name for herself internationally in dramatic soprano repertoire; fans of the Adelaide Ring no doubt know her from there. She was a glorious Ariadne, with all the dignity, expansive sound and Straussian style you could hope for, not to mention an excellent sense of pacing, which allowed her to start strong and finish even stronger: a convincing journey to divine bliss. John Mac Master was her Bacchus. This is the man who substituted for Ben Heppner on the opening night of Tristan at the Met, for heaven's sake, so what else can I say? He was fantastic, heroic and thrillingly secure. Rather static and solid onstage, but then, the production and his costume more or less demanded as much. 

What a shame our Zerbinetta was not at the same level. Theresa Borg had all kinds of things going for her: she gave us an adorable characterisation, strutting, posing and dancing with panache. She could have been fabulousness itself; but, alas, all that personality was not matched by a voice that could handle the role. Zerbinetta must be one of the most gruelling roles a coloratura soprano can take on. Borg coped reasonably well in the Prologue, where charisma mostly compensated for her very light voice, but she was already frequently being swamped, and in the opera proper it only got worse. Full marks for effort — she certainly threw herself into it — but she just didn't have the agility, the vibrancy of tone or the high notes to pull it off: a pretty uncomfortable situation in a role which contains one of the most insanely difficult coloratura arias in the repertoire. She was supported magnificently, however, by her entourage of very funny and very talented song-and-dance men. They were all pretty great, but especial praise must go to Samuel Dundas, who lived up to the promise of his showing in Opera Australia's YAP final with an irresistible, show-stealing Arlecchino. 

Ariadne, too, had a strong entourage, in the shape of Melanie Adams (Naiad), Roxane Hislop (Dryad) and Jessica Aszodi. The combination of their varying vibratos was a little bit overpowering at times, but they still made an impressive and quite luxuriously cast trio. Most striking of the three, I thought, was Aszodi's Echo: there's not much chance to show one's own vocal personality off in that role, but somehow she did. I've since discovered the clips of her on this page and have become mildly besotted, to the point that I'm considering going back next month for Xerxes to hear her Atalanta. We'll see, but at any rate, she was great. It was also lovely to hear Roxane again, for the first time in ... two years? Three? I don't think she's sung anything here since Rigoletto, which was late 2006. 

Orchestra Victoria sounded brilliant. The acoustic in the Playhouse (as its name would suggest) isn't wonderful for opera (although it's not a total disaster either) but they still managed to fill it with plenty of rich and varied colour and firm, focused playing. Richard Gill led them with grace and wit. I did sometimes wish he'd dig a bit deeper into the opera's most ecstatic passages, but for the most part this was a gorgeous and lyrical reading, sensitive both to the singers and to the twisting, turning, ever changing textures of the score. 

I can't say this was a perfect Ariadne. But Ariadne ain't easy. The mere fact that Victorian Opera decided to take it on is laudable enough. That they've done so in such inventive and rewarding style is, despite any of the show's flaw, cause for great joy. Absolutely worth the trip. 

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. 

Aida

Please forgive any infelicities or outright stupidity in what follows. I am a victim of my own bad planning. Having determined to write everything I wanted to write about Aida before the opening night of Manon Lescaut, I now find myself accordingly obliged to blog about it at a time when a sensible person would be asleep. I'll try and be briefish, but you know me: that never really works. 

I get the sense that many people have welcomed Graeme Murphy's production as a work of triumphant genius. So when I say that I don't entirely agree with that sentiment, I acknowledge at the same time that this might have as much to do with me as with him. I just know that when I write what I'm about to write, somebody will either shout at me or want to shout at me that I am missing the point. However, here it is. In the end, I did actually think this show was pretty fabulous, but the important words there are in the end. For me, the first two acts fell — no pun intended — a little flat. Murphy has this idea of 3D people in a 2D world — meaning top-of-the-line cardboard cutouts — which definitely has its moments of striking appeal. But for me it also has moments, especially at the beginning, of looking like an old fashioned Aida with cardboard sets; that is, the stylisation doesn't always (particularly at close range) look deliberate. I understand that it is deliberate, but the contrast isn't always as vividly made as it might be. That quite possibly has something to do with the performers as well: it's a while before they really take ownership of the space and let their own performances blossom, and in the meantime they risk being as two-dimensional as the sets. 

But as I've written already, whatever my reservations about the first half, they were magically obliterated by the fantastic second half, in which everything just came together brilliantly. Sets, costumes, lighting, acting, singing, orchestral playing — you name it, it was better. And it wasn't just a case of individual improvements: all the artistic forces at play seemed to feed off each other's energy so that the show as a whole became its own vibrant identity and took flight. For all the spectacle of the earlier acts, nothing in this show will remain as strong in my memory as the clear, simple and genius way Murphy staged the final act. Coupled with the heightened musical intensity and singers whose voices seemed to be gaining richness and power with every phrase, it was simply extraordinary. I'm getting worked up again now just thinking about it, a week later.

However, the point of praise I'm really rushing towards is the fantastic Tamara Wilson. Even the bitterest of last year's complainers could surely raise no objections to this import. She was outstanding. She's only young (young enough that her name still seems to have "rising star" permanently attached to it) but that is some voice, and she knows how to use it. This is her first ever Aida, and I think she said in an interview somewhere that she hadn't expected to sing the role so early in her career. Yet here she is doing it, and what I love is that she embraces that youthfulness. She doesn't try and blast the hell out of it or march about the place Acting Like A Star. Her Aida is sweet and gentle while still tackling the big moments with real power, so that she fills that theatre not with sheer volume but with a sound so perfectly spun and so controlled that it floats and swirls into the ether. If this is what her début sounds like, then "rising star" is right: she's definitely somebody special. 

Dongwon Shin's success isn't as immediate but ultimately it's hardly less impressive. His "Celeste Aida" was excellent but not what I'd call exceptional. It was only in those final two acts that his voice seemed really to open up, and once it had, the sounds that man was making were pretty amazing. Fabulous Italianate tenors are all too rare in our Opera Theatre, alas, so Shin is one we must keep in our grasp. Maybe not the subtlest actor but far from dull, and for that kind of ringing, secure tone I'd forgive far worse sins; besides, there's plenty of life and colour in the voice, and that's what really counts. Like the show itself, Milijana Nikolic takes until Act Three to come suddenly and wonderfully into her own. Of course she looks amazing from the outset, exotic and Cleopatra-esque, but to begin with her voice isn't quite as electrifying or as gorgeous as she is. Once Amneris gets a chance to make a scene, however, everything begins to change, and when she gets to her big solo scene — you could probably even call it a mad scene — she's all aflame, with voice to match, and you start to realise why Grace Bumbry (reportedly) told Leontyne Price that the opera should really be titled Amneris. 

My hat is off to Michael Lewis as well. I'd sort of forgotten he was in it, until Amonasro arrived and I had the sudden joy of a real live Verdi baritone. Lewis is in his element in this role, marrying impeccable Verdi style to a firm, flexible and suitably authoritative voice. Even if my first half reservations had continued to the end, Michael Lewis's performance (along with Tamara's) would still have remained with me as an unalloyed pleasure. Jud Arthur had a couple of minor tangles with a tricky throat but otherwise was in his usual sononorous form as Ramfis, and it was great to see David Parkin making his official company début as The King. I wasn't massively impressed with Amy Wilkinson's Priestess, although it's hard to draw too many conclusions from such a brief and distant appearane; she sang quite nicely but there wasn't much celestial about her. 

I've already in my earlier post expressed my abject love for the Opera Australia chorus. There's not much I can add to that. Hearing them in an opera like this, so grand and sweeping and with such big hits for them to sing, is just another reminder of what a wonderful sound they make. I won't declare myself quite so besotted with Sir Richard Armstrong but I was happy at least that his Aida wasn't as decibel-driven as his Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk (where loud worked) and his leadership of the Radiance concert (where loud ruined things). Anyway, he drew a reasonably robust and at times quite lyrical performance from the AOBO. There did seem to be some grappling over tempi happening at the beginning but it sorted itself out — along with everything else — and in those last two acts the orchestra's playing really began to glow. 

I'm still puzzling over this Aida a bit. If you'd told me at the first or second interval how I'd feel by the end, I would not have believed you, and yet it happened. I don't recall reacting to a show like this before, dismissing one half only to fall head over heels for the other. And now what I'd like to see is an incarnation of this Aida in which it's all at the level of the second half. For all I know that might happen within this (rather long) season. Maybe it even happened on opening night and I was just too slow on the uptake. These — and Tamara Wilson! — are all good reasons for paying a second visit, and that's precisely what I plan to do.

Aida notes

I said last week that I would write again more fully about Acis and Dido, and I did mean to, but things got in the way and then I exhausted myself writing rather long reviews of the double bill for elsewhere. That said, I still want to do a proper write-up here, not because I imagine anyone's hungering for it, but for my own peace of mind, really. But that might as well wait now until Thursday, when I finally see the show for the second time. (Can you believe it? I've missed not one but two performances of a show containing Yvonne Kenny.) 

Meanwhile — at the risk of this becoming a bad habit — just a few words about Aida, which opened tonight. Genuine brevity this time — at least by my standards. Not even paragraphs, just a list. What I'd like to say about Aida is:

 

1. Please, can we keep Tamara Wilson? Alert customs. Don't let her leave. She's fabulous.

2. Surely Opera Australia has one of the finest opera choruses anywhere. Michael Black — and all choristers — I salute you.

3. This was almost like seeing two different performances of Aida on the same evening. Acts I & II were less than inspiring, despite some excellent singing. But just as I was resigning myself to more of the same, Acts III and IV came along and blew me away. Honestly, it was the strangest thing: a decidedly unspecial first half, followed by an amazing second half which has me determined to catch at least one more performance before this cast disbands. 

4. Graeme Murphy's production seems designed to be viewed from the dead centre of the theatre, so if you're booking,you might want to try for seats near the middle. I was in E14 and often felt (in the first half) that I was seeing it all side on.

5. The dancing is inevitable and occasionally superfluous, but a lot of it is pretty fantastic and a couple of numbers are pure genius. 

6. Milijana Nikolic's Amneris takes a while to warm up. But when she does... watch out. 

7. I don't think I've ever stamped my feet for so many members of a cast. 

8. The verdict? See it. It ain't perfect, but see it. With this cast if you can. 

Werther

I really had very little idea what to expect from Opera Australia's Werther — it's not an opera I'm hugely familiar with, and it was very hard to tell much about the production beyond the promise of frocks by Leona Edmiston, in honour of which I pointedly wore my watermelon coloured Leona Edmiston tights. But I arrived in a good mood, predisposed to enjoy myself, and I was not disappointed. In fact I had a wonderful time. 

The mere fact that the production is in modern dress is, I suppose, enough to put some people off, but in all honesty, this didn't seem to me a particularly feather-ruffling modernisation. I actually thought it worked very well indeed, and it looked fantastic — it's such a refreshing change to see people on stage in genuinely and recognisably modern dress, rather than the dated attempts at same in something like OA's Simon Philips Bohème, and they're set against a series of striking, sparsely furnished sets. I especially liked the set for Act I, a curious indoor-outdoor blend, with a fresh green lawn framed by massive and ornate doorframes. Le Bailli has more children than Captain Von Trapp but they're not quite so cloying — at least not in this production, where they more or less act like real children. The youngest girl is very good at being adorable, and the third eldest (after Charlotte and Sophie) even better at looking sour — something used to interesting effect in the third act. The staging is pretty straightforward for the most part, although it takes an interesting turn in Act III, when Charlotte, having been obliged to send Albert's pistols to Werther, tries repeatedly to leave her dinner party, only to be blocked by a series of ghostly and malicious party guests who seat themselves solemnly around her table, ready for the most joyless, funereal Christmas party ever. The children are herded off, with the exception of the sour girl, who sits on the couch, isolated from the party and begins to sob. It's weird, but curiously effective — a memorable way of conveying the absolute horror of Charlotte's situation, forced to celebrate in the knowledge that the man she loves is at that moment committing a miserable suicide.

Not having the premiere or intervening revivals of this production, I have no way of knowing how much of this revival is Moshinsky's concept and how much is the work of the revival director, one Elke Neidhardt. But I certainly cannot imagine Elke kowtowing to another director's vision at the expense of her own, so I suspect it is as much her production as his by now, and that everything that's there is there because she wanted it there, regardless of who had the original idea. In any case, what I have to declare without further ado, in case it isn't already clear, is that I think Elke Neidhardt has done a fantastic job with this Werther. I realise that I may have given the impression of a personal vendetta against Elke, since I rubbished both her Tannhäuser and her Don Giovanni, but I've been trying not to close my mind entirely, and this Werther, even if it isn't hers from the ground up, definitely helps to keep it open. 

The only issue I have, and it's something which troubled me in her Don Giovanni, too, although it's not nearly so troublesome here, is that she seems to excel in directing the concept but to fall down a little in directing people. In both Don Giovanni and Werther we have an utterly modern setting, but the people who inhabit it still frequently act like they were in a totally traditional production — you could roll the sets and costumes back a century and their gestures and expressions would mostly not be out of place. However, it's hardly a serious crime: after all, there's really not much you can do to take the Romantic melodrama out of this opera, certainly not without crushing its soul. Because the melodrama, the sentimentality, the excess of it is all part of its charm. At least, that's my feeling: I have a soft spot for Massenet, and I love his over the top tendencies. Thais is still on my wishlist.

One of this production's chief joys, of course, is the fabulous Aldo di Toro in the title role. I have a slight feeling of possessiveness towards Aldo, for the simple fact that I managed to see him (only just) before his Opera Australia début. I proceeded to make promises left, right and centre that that début (Alfredo in La traviata) would be a triumph and, thank heavens, it was. Now he is our beautiful Werther. His voice may not be huge, but it is absolutely delicious, and he sings with such genuine artistry and sensitivity that he is impossible to resist. His "Pourquoi me réveiller" is fantastic, naturally, but so too is his soliloquy after bidding farewell to Charlotte, not to mention a haunting death scene — including one of the more spectacular stage falls I've ever seen. Inevitably there are a few giggles, as Werther takes an awfully long time to die, but it's nevertheless a moving scene. (It might also be worth noting that the prolonged death is not really Massenet's fault. Goethe's Werther takes a full twelve hours to die, so the opera in fact accelerates things quite drastically.)

Michèle Losier is a happy discovery as Charlotte. In fact it is slightly odd to think that she replaces Pamela Helen Stephen in the role: as happy as I undoubtedly would have been to hear Pamela in the role (I'm a fan, though I know others aren't) I have difficulty imagining her in the role as envisioned here. Michèle plays a youthful, slightly fidgety Charlotte, clutching at chairs and fussing with cutlery when faced with difficult situations. Though only months go by, she seems visibly to age as she passes from the end of adolescence into her socially prudent marriage: the radiant, fluttery girl of the first act is barely recognisable in the pale, elegant society hostess of the third. She's lovely in those early scenes, but her best moments come towards the end. Her voice opens up brilliantly in her "Qui m'aurait dit la place...Va! laisse couler mes larmes" and in the surrounding scenes — a dark, exciting mezzo with a good solid lower register and plenty of colour. She's pretty devastating in the final scene, too, the last shreds of self-containment giving way to palpable terror. 

I've already mentioned in passing how delighted I was with Sarah Crane as Sophie. I've read mention in several places of Sophie as one of those typically annoying soubrettes in which opera abounds, and while I can see that she could be, that really wasn't my impression of Sarah's Sophie. Yes, she's endlessly cheerful and not massively perceptive, but to me she just seemed like a rather charming teenager. Her mooning over Schmidt is a bit overplayed, perhaps, but otherwise I liked her a lot. And I loved her singing. This is (for me) a new development: I've heard Sarah in several other roles, but she's never made a significant impression on me until now. Her voice seems more secure and distinctive now and has more of a silvery sheen than I remembered. She trips lightly through Sophie's very French coloratura, her high notes sparkle and she seems genuinely to be having fun with the music. More than that, I can't say, but I'm definitely listening to Sarah Crane with renewed interest. 

My other favourite is lovely Stephen Bennett as Le Bailli. Lately, every time I've heard Stephen, I've wished we could hear him in something a bit more substantial; this role gives us that chance to some extent, at least in terms of character development, and he lives up to my hopes. He's a totally lovable father figure, his stage presence just radiating paternal benevolence, and there's an engaging twinkle in his eye and in his voice. His French diction is superb, to my ears some of the best of the evening, and his smooth, rich bass is a constant pleasure. Andrew Schroeder sings real authority and style as Albert, though it's a pity this production seems determined to pigeonhole him as an irredeemable square — he could probably have pulled off something a bit more complex, though. He's excellent, though, and for some reason kept reminding me of Peter Coleman-Wright, which can only be a good thing.

Best of the rest is probably Stephen Smith as Schmidt. Stephen is in just about every production this year (well, seven of them) so I'm going to run out of things to say about him, but, as in Pagliacci, he turns a jocular cameo into a miniature star turn, and shows off both a charming sense of humour and a promising tenor voice. Even these brief appearances suggest he's a strong actor as well as a singer, so it will be interesting to see him take on something meatier in the future. David Thelander is entertaining, if a bit more on the generic side, as his drinking buddy Johann. Jodie McGuren and Andrew Brunsdon are very cute as the beatniks Kätchen and Bruhlmann. There's also a collection of actors, roped in to play Albert's entourage, imagined in this modern setting as an assortment of Beautiful People whose acceptance of Charlotte is superficial, and among whom Charlotte is increasingly uneasy. 

Emmanuel Plasson leads what sounds to me a very Massenet, very French performance, not shying away from romantic excess but not overdoing it either. The orchestral preludes and interludes are evocative and nicely paced, particularly at the point of Charlotte's dour Christmas party, and the saxophone solo in Charlotte's "Qui m'aurait dit" is beautifully played.

I'm not going to claim this as an earth shattering revelation, but that's hardly the point anyway. It was just a truly engaging and enjoyable night of opera. Perhaps not everybody will like the production, but there's enough excellent singing in this Werther to cover a multitude of perceived directorial sins. It's a shame audiences have been so small, at least on the two nights I attended, but such is life — the name Massenet is evidently only a guaranteed drawcard when followed by the name Manon. And Manon certainly has her appeal; but I quite like her younger brother, too, and judging by the vocal ovation from the tiny opening night audience, so do many others. 

Cav/Pag

You see, I promised you I'd post about something other than Butterfly. And so I shall. A million years ago (actually, just a bit more than a week ago, but it feels like longer) I was at opening night of Opera Australia's revival of Cav & Pag. And for various reasons, it has taken me until now to write anything about it. Chief among those reasons being, I suspect, plain old boredom. This was not exactly a fascinating night in the theatre.

It could have been. These are soap opera operas, after all. Abandoned women, faithless men, love, honour, duty, illicit affairs and illegitimate children, all kinds of fun stuff. And lots of big, fiery music to sing. Or not. This must have been my first complete Cavalleria (it actually isn't, but never mind) because I simply did not expect it to take such a very long time to get started. It's not that the opening scenes are lacking in beauty but the experience was far from electrifying. And even once the action proper got going, it wasn't quite the blazing row I was expecting. Pagliacci had a bit more energy to it, but some of the Cavalleria sleepiness seeped in nonetheless, and the production lost momentum just where you'd expect it to be gaining it: Tonio's Prologue was riveting, but by the time everyone started getting stabbed, the tension had dissipated. I giggled (sorry), yawned, and went home.

So, thank god for Jonathan Summers, is all I can say. If anything could tempt me back to this show, it would be his performances in both operas. He only has to stride on stage in Cavalleria and the show is his, and his singing is hands down the most interesting in the opera. Surely Santuzza, not Alfio, should be the one you're cheering for? Nicole Youl is sweet, but maybe a bit too sweet for Santuzza: as the timid outcast she was reasonably convincing, but once she got fired up, it didn't really make sense anymore — she just seemed like a needy meddler, not a tragic heroine, and — is this a terrible thing to say? — you could understand why Turiddu might want rid.

Speaking of whom: Dennis O'Neill divides me in half. I like to hear him sing. He's still one of the strongest and most stylish tenors at the company's disposal. I don't like to watch him sing. He doesn't move. There's no character development. A couple of arm flailing gestures and not much more, unless (as in Otello) the director has forced him into it. And if OA is going to keep casting him — and for all his dramatic shortcomings, I guess they should — it needs to be in roles in which he is at least vaguely convincing. Turiddu the supercool soldier, who leaves a trail of broken hearts in his wake? Please.

But a big thumbs up for the two mezzos of the piece. My mania for Jacqueline Dark is well established, so of course I was very happy to hear her as Mamma Lucia. She was surprisingly convincing as a decrepit old woman, vocally as well as physically — which actually just makes me that much keener to see her in a glamour part for once. The real surprise, though, was Dominica Matthews' fabulous Lola. No wonder Turiddu preferred her to Santuzza. I wouldn't necessarily have picked her voice as ideally suited to this kind of repertoire, but in fact she was wonderful, all husky tone and dangerous allure. And against a backdrop of Sicilian black, that red hair! What a thrill.

Broken record time, I'm afraid, but the star of Pagliacci is once again, yes, Jonathan Summers. You could go home satisfied after his Prologue. What else do you need? Maybe it's not the most luxuriant voice in the world these days, but its slender, growling quality is exactly what I like. He's a brilliantly paradoxical Tonio, menacing and yet sympathetic — not somebody you'd want to meet in a dark alley, but when he's being mercilessly mocked by Nedda, she, not he, is the villain, and you (or at least, I) can't help but like him. Likewise as he gives the drama its final flourish. He frames the opera, and so it becomes his opera. If it were all Tonio and no Nedda, I'd be back in a flash.

Dennis O'Neill's Canio is much like his Turiddu, except with a different jacket. The happy coincidence is that here, his dull stage presence is not entirely unsuited to the character. The scenes of adulation from the crowd are a bit hard to buy, but as the jealous husband with a young wife, he's reasonably convincing. He sings gorgeously of course, and has his rightful moment in the spotlight with "Vesti la giubba". Amelia Farrugia is a wicked, feline Nedda, quite fun to watch (and she looks very pretty) but disappointingly shallow — Nedda's petulant frustration with life never seems to give way to any more genuine emotion, even as she's planning her getaway with Silvio. But it's nice to hear her really sing in the middle of her voice, which hasn't happened much. Her upper register is still where all the colour (and money) is, but this at least was an improvement on her Rosina in Barbiere, who seemed to disappear every time the coloratura died down.

José Carbo is his usual magnificent self (I bet I've written exactly those words before) as Silvio. If only he had more to sing. But what he does sing is beautiful, and his sincerity to some extent makes up for Nedda's superficiality. He also does admirable double duty as a stagehand. And there's a bit of a star turn by Stephen Smith, whose slender but stylish tenor, striking physique (Teddy-philes will be happy) and irresistible comic energy have probably already gained him a bit of a following. 

I know, or at least, I presume, that Maestro Licata has this kind of repertoire in his blood. And to be fair, it was pretty Italian sounding. It would want to be. But the whole performance did seem a bit leaden, somehow: sundrenched to the point of lethargy. Then again, that impression probably owed something to the dullness of the goings-on onstage. I think we could have done with a bit more urgency, both in the pit and above it.

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.

Batman

Before I write about Billy Budd — which deserves all the words I can find — a quick mention of the very, very funny Die Fledermaus I saw at the Conservatorium on Thursday night. Mostly I hate it when companies who perform light opera/operetta in English (original or translated) feel obliged to shoehorn in a few pop culture references. But fashioning an entire adaptation from nothing but pop culture is a different beast; in a sense, an artform in itself. And that's what Mary Rachel Brown's adaptation, directed by Matthew Barclay, does. It translates every last detail of the plot into the terms of tacky Australian celebrity culture.

So Gabe Eisenstein, star cricketer, is married to ex-model Ros. Adele is a Hollywood obsessed live-in beauty therapist. Falke is a gay sports agent in love (possibly requitedly) with his star client. And so on. You get the idea. All the familiar havoc ensues, facilitated by the terribly artsy party of one Prince Bartholomew Barnaby ("Barrie" to his friends) Kos(lovs)ky. Summarised like that, it might sound absolutely awful. And it easily could have been. But the new dialogue is well-written and genuinely funny, the pop culture references grow ever more uproariously absurd, and the cast could actually act.

Whether they could sing is another matter. Actually, no, that's a terrible thing to say. They could all sing. I just don't think they're all opera singers, but that's fine, and when you're taking this kind of approach to the piece, it isn't a huge hindrance to enjoyment. The women were good: Natalie Aroyan was suitably bright-voiced and expansive as Ros, and Regine Sturm hit all the right notes in "Mein Herr Marquis". Possibly the best sounds of the night came from Ji-Hye Kim's delightfully deadpan Koslovsky. And from the chorus, actually, who sounded excellent. The men were not so good. Vocally that is. They could carry a tune, but projection, diction and beauty of tone all tended to fall by the wayside.

But guess what? I didn't care. It didn't matter. They sang because it's an operetta and they had to, but the true fabulousness was in the dialogue and this was a cast of true comedians. John Komadina's take-off of brainless "Aussie legend" sports celebrities was spot on, right down to the assault charge and the endorsement of Hair Replacement Therapy. Lorenzo Rossitano was a scream as "opera fusion" singer Alfredo; his jail cell rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody was priceless. John Donohoe's trigger happy Officer Frank deserves his own show. And I adored Simon Halligan as Falke — he gets bonus points for playing gay without going ridiculously over the top, and also for stylishly pulling off the production's one, brief moment of near-seriousness, a bitter toast to "our true identities" as he realises the man he loves will never acknowledge his.

There are all kinds of other very fun flourishes to this show; but cataloguing them would never convey their humour, so too bad. Although, I will say that being handed, as I entered the theatre, a mock tabloid front page carrying the headline "BATMAN LOSES ROBIN IN MARDI GRAS ROMP" was a definite highlight. And yes, alright, this was far from the most musically wonderful Fledermaus, but it was a whole lot of fun, and that's fine with me. Besides which, any production of Fledermaus which uses the Act Two party as an opportunity to declare André R*eu the Antichrist has my blessing.

Typical

I know Melbourne sometimes gets a little (and justifiably) miffed over what it sees as neglect by Opera Australia, the so-called national company which seems to spend a lot of time in Sydney. For obvious, selfish reasons, my sympathy is limited. But now Richard Gill is turning the tables on me. Victorian Opera's recently announced 2009 season might only contain four operas, but it includes not only one of my absolute favourites — Don Giovanni — but also two, count 'em, two of the works which always spring to mind when I start daydreaming about what I'd like to see Opera Australia do. To wit: Handel's Xerxes and, best/worst of all, Strauss's Ariadne auf Naxos. And just to make matters worse, guess who's singing Der Komponist? That's right, Jacqueline Dark. It was only a week or two ago that I was listening to Anne Sofie on the Sinopoli recording and thinking — you know, I did once think I couldn't see Jacqui in a pants role but forget that, she would be glorious in this. And now it's happening, but in the wrong damn city. Typical!

Nor is she the only highlight of this gorgeous little season. I've never had the chance to see a Victorian Opera production, but just the same I adore this company from afar. Their whole approach just seems so bright and inventive. Creative repertoire, interesting casting and what sound like excellent productions. Richard Gill and his crew seem to have all the right ideas about how to go about it, and it seems the company is going from strength to strength. Long may it continue. I bet OA could learn a thing or two from Victorian Opera. (Hint: Balcony Club. Good idea. Copy it. Please.)

So the only question now is, do I go to Melbourne in December for Streetcar, as planned, or do I go in July for Jacqui instead? Both, perhaps. It's a hard life I lead.

Tales of the City III

Das Rheingold

Don't worry, this isn't one of my usual solemn and rhapsodising Wagner posts. Das Rheingold was of course magnificent, soul-filling Wagner but it was also, dare I say, quite a lot of fun. This is Part the First of Francesca Zambello's so-called American Ring. Wagner filtered through American mythology and cultural history. Sounds subversive enough, but its bark is worse than its bite. It's as if she had nerve enough only to come up with the basic concept, not to pursue it as far as she might have and possibly should have.

I mean, if you're going to go as far as blatantly Americanising Wagner, for heaven's sake, you might as well go all the way. Zambello hasn't. Leaving aside objections to the very essence of the concept (and I realise many won't be willing to even do that), I think her idea of aligning the Rhine and its gold to the California gold rush is not without its appeal. However, it seems a little pointless to have the idea and then create a scene which looks like any big river. The only aspect which says "gold rush" is Alberich's prospector costume; why not, since video projections were such a prominent part of this production, use some to evoke the particular historical moment she's apparently referencing? All the projections provided us with was rushing water and swirling gold — what's specifically American about that? Nibelheim didn't match either; I expected it would look more like a working mine but it too could probably have passed for a conventionally Germanic underworld. It looked good, don't get me wrong; it just didn't seem to fit the concept.

The world of the gods was a bit more consistent. A burgeoning 1920s dynasty, lounging about a temporary vacation residence while waiting for their mansion to be built. Jennifer Larmore was appallingly marvellous as a hardbitten, grasping Fricka. Still, Zambello stumbled over details. There seemed no attempt to translate Wotan's spear into 20th century American terms; likewise Freia's golden apples. Now, you might fundamentally object to any attempt to translate such symbols, and that's understandable; but if you're Francesca Zambello, and you've had this big idea, surely you ought to have the audacity and the creativity to integrate every part of the opera into your vision. You've already gone ahead and meddled with the Ring, I doubt anyone will be very surprised if you fiddle with the symbols a bit.

Then there were the bits that were just plain weird. Like Alberich's slinky Discohelm, a square of gold lamé which he tucked into his belt like an oil rag when he wasn't draping it ridiculously over his face. No wonder the surtitles just called it "Tarnhelm", since this was not in any way, shape or form a helmet. I was disappointed by the staging of his transformation into a giant snake — music that terrifying deserves something more substantial than scaly video projections. The toad (which became a frog for the purposes of alliterative surtitles) was much better; actually it was very cute. I wanted one. I thought turning Donner's hammer into a croquet mallet was a stroke of brilliance, though.

One thing up with which I will not put, however, is the blithe manner in which Cori Ellison has just changed the translation of "Rheingold" in her surtitles. Apparently it now means "pure gold". On account of the pun in the libretto, "Rheingold! Rheingold! Reines Gold". Not really a pun if you turn them all into the same word, though. The Rheinmaidens are now "river maidens". Of course, I can see that she really had no choice. You can't set the opera in America and then have your characters wittering on about the Rhine every three seconds but still... it makes me uneasy. Especially since the word in question is also the title of the opera. Good on Ellison, though, for attempting to retain the libretto's alliteration in her surtitles where possible, even if Wagnerian German alliteration and Ellisonian American alliteration haven't quite the same rhetorical effect.

The only singer I really want to rave about is Stefan Margita, who was slick, seedy and fantastic as Loge. Everyone seemed to relish their parts but Margita still more or less stole the show; from his final monologue you'd think it had been his opera all along. It was lovely to see Jennifer Larmore in person, too; she was obviously enjoying herself a lot and given that Wagner is way out of her usual repertoire, she sang pretty damn well. She needs, however, to EAT SOMETHING. And preferably quite a lot of it. My other favourites were Andrea Silvestrelli (Fasolt), Tamara Wapinsky (Freia) and Lauren McNeese (Wellgunde). I also like Buffy Baggot (Flosshilde), mostly for her excellent name.

And! The orchestra! Thank you, Maestro Runnicles, I like you a lot. Seamless, shimmering playing which, American Ring be damned, rose from the very depths of the Rhine. Also, it has to be said — what a difference a pit makes. I've always known the conditions for the orchestra in the Opera Theatre were atrocious, but I don't think I really realised how atrocious until, at my first SFO Lucia, I was reminded what an opera orchestra can sound like when playing from a pit not actually designed for physical discomfort and muffled sound. Luxury!

V is for Vivaldi

And V is for volte-face. Pinchgut Opera's production of Vivaldi's Juditha triumphans opened last night. I'm reviewing it for NZ Opera News, so won't do so here. However, there are few points I'd like to note and first among them is my total change of policy regarding Fiona Campbell. Last year she sang Idamante for Pinchgut and I was underwhelmed. Well, I don't know what made the difference — the music, the venue, my seat, my point of view, my tastes, my ear or what — but last night as Vagaus, Fiona Campbell was ON FIRE. She was everything I look for (and rarely find) in a mezzo soprano, in a Vivaldi singer, in an opera singer in general. Absolutely stunning. If I were richer (or just less cautious) I would go to every single performance purely to hear her "Armatae face et anguibus", which is — I'm serious — one of the most amazing things I've ever heard in a theatre. She'd just come across her general's beheaded corpse, and I thought — oh please, let her sing a vengeance aria now; then it began and I realised I knew it from Cecilia Bartoli's Chatelet Vivaldi concert. Let me say this now: if I had to choose, I would choose Fiona's. Elsewhere she was equally strong, a riveting presence in every way, musically and dramatically. Somehow when I review Juditha properly I will condense all of this into a relatively sensible sentence or two but for the moment, I'm compelled to go overboard, to declare my huge admiration and brand new status as A Fan.

A few other scattered thoughts:

-Three male roles. One countertenor, two mezzos. And yet, in this production, no pants roles. I think this is very, very clever.

-Attilio Cremonesi, who directed from the harpsichord, is not only brilliant but also totally lovable. I don't think I've ever seen a conductor shake the hand of every single member of the orchestra at the end of the opera.

-Everybody is good in their roles. But if I were queen of everything, I'd love to reshuffle and see what would happen — Sally-Anne Russell (Juditha) as Ozias (spiritual leader of Bethulia), Renae Martin (Ozias) as Vagaus, Fiona Campbell as Juditha. So many mezzos! All operas should be cast like this.

-There's a telling early encounter between Judith and Holofernes, as he tries at great length to make her sit beside him and she refuses. It's a wonderful aria (beautifully sung by David Walker) and was very cleverly staged. But when you have somebody pleading at such length "sit, please sit, please sit down" and so on, I'm afraid I can't help but think of Puppy Pre-School.

-And finally, I just want to say — thank god for Pinchgut. It's a unique and stylish company, with fascinating ideas and the best taste in repertoire. I say the best taste, because it's also my taste; I just wish I'd been here to see them all.

-Update: Actually, something else. I knew he was familiar. I've just realised that I've seen David Walker before. Three and a half years ago, as Arsamene in the New York City Opera Xerxes. One of my first experiences of live opera. Small world.

Why should we not let the mice be gay?

Why not indeed?

It's with this noble sentiment that the fun in Isaac Nathan's Don John of Austria really kicks off. After what seems like the world's longest overture — as if he'd got himself trapped, à la Dudley Moore's Beethoven sonata — there's a lengthy and jolly chorus, beautifully articulated by the Sydney Philharmonia Chamber Choir. Their master has been absent and while the cat's away...hence the title, only slightly less hilarious in context. It's a sign of things to come, libretto wise.

Don Quexada enters and ruminates at length on his foster son, the unruly Don John. Eventually he breaks into song — a soporific strophic lullaby-to-self, as he, highly poetically, proclaims "I cannot stay awake, so I'll go-oh to sleeeep". Shortly Don John himself appears, played by Steve Davislim as a Mike Myers character. (Think Wayne's World rather Austin Powers). A duet ensues: "You are not heeding what I say"/"I will break the walls away" (I think. There's no libretto to look at, I'm working on memory.) These two lines are repeated ad nauseam. Before they're halfway through, you'll find you could easily sing along (as is indeed the case for much of the opera.)

Forgive me. I'm not taking it seriously. But then, neither were they. There's no question this opera has dated; indeed, it may well have been a bit silly in 1847 as well. So this concert performance with the Sydney Symphony, while not totally frivolous or facetious, played for laughs where appropriate and made no effort to convince us that this was The Great Australian Opera. I doubt anybody imagines it is; it's enough that it's The First. The music is not exactly earth shattering — sometimes it's downright dreary — but there are few nice little surprises buried in it, and it also provides its share of hilarity. Donna Agnes is treated well, as a prima donna should be, though the incessant runs and trills in her opening aria make it well nigh impossible to understand more than about one word in four. But then, judging by the intelligible words, that might be for the best. This opera, it has to be said, makes a compelling case for singing in Foreign.

The singing, by the way, was very good. Paul Whelan as Don Quexada was sonorous if rather rough; the up-and-down coloratura requirements of the role seemed to have killed off the suavity notable in his Don Giovanni a few years ago. Steve Davislim was a natural comedian — helpful given the vast amount of dialogue in this thing — and even managed to look a bit Spanish. In Dorothy, servant to Donna Agnes, Nathan seems to have devised the most thankless role ever written for mezzo soprano. Forget Suzuki. Dorothy sings in one ensemble at the beginning and one at the end and that's it. She has a long speech as she frets about her mistress (who doesn't expect the Spanish Inquisition — nobody does — but ends up facing it just the same) but no aria. Thus I applaud Sally Anne Russell for looking so cheery and involved by the end. Grant Doyle made a good spoilt brat as Philip II, jealous of his illegitimate half brother Don John, whining that Daddy (Charles V — Don Carlos, of course) loves his natural child more than his successor. He's in love with Agnes, whom Don John wishes to marry and uses the Inquisition to make everyone as miserable as he can.

But Agnes is problematic for any man in the Inquisition era to love — she's Jewish. She tells Don John and he has no problem with it. Philip, on the other hand, plots to burn her (and anyone else he can manage). Despite the title, it's Agnes who quickly becomes the centre of the opera. Cheryl Barker imbued the role with such dignity and fragility that when she was there, it was almost like a different opera — not one to be affectionately mocked, just one to hear and be touched by. Her slender, faintly exotic and sweetly blossoming voice grew warmer and more brilliant as the opera progressed and she tackles even the most inane flourishes with style. Agnes has aria after aria lavished upon her and Cheryl aced every single one. It was only right that she take the final bow, even after Don John himself; this is an opera about Agnes and Cheryl is an ideal prima donna.

The whole show was very very well staged with the confines of the City Recital Hall, everyone in black and white except the now-cloistered Charles V, in his friar's robes, and Donna Agnes replendent in blues and greys and beads. Cast members sang and read from scores, while actors in non-singing roles moved among them. Charles' sudden entrance to save the day came from the back of the theatre, after which he (and the long suffering Dorothy) made their way up the aisle). The Sydney Symphony made gorgeous sounds — they were helped in this by two illustrious descendants of Isaac Nathan, namely Sir Charles Mackerras, who wrote the orchestration (with characteristic brilliance) and his very talented nephew, Alexander Briger, who conducted. Family affair.

Would I go again? Absolutely. Sadly, I can't, as the only other performance conflicts directy with something a little bit special. Were that not the case, I'd be there in a flash. For me, Don John was more entertaining and more musically satisfying than The Gondoliers the previous night; and besides, Cheryl Barker as Agnes is simply not to be missed. I'm looking forward to the broadcast on ABC Classic FM on November 10th and I feel like I read somewhere (though I can't find it now) that it will eventually be released on CD as well. It wasn't great art but it was definitely great fun.

Il Barbiere di Siviglia

After several months of withdrawal symptoms, Opera Australia has returned to Sydney, and Tuesday night saw the opening of the Winter Season with Leon Krasenstein's brightly coloured and cartoonish production of Rossini's Il Barbiere di Siviglia.

Amidst an extravagant set inspired by Gaudi — though apparently realised by Disney — Krasenstein has shifted the action of the opera to a 1930s spa. Doctor Bartolo actually works as a doctor, Berta as a quasi-nurse, and there's even a clutch of mute guests thrown in for good measure — among them a pair of ornamental toreadors and a wildy moustachioed Salvador Dali. Visually the new setting is an appealing one and it has its share of comic charm. In terms of plot, however, the move seems both unnecessary and, at times, obstructive. Exchanges between Rosina and Almaviva which should take place outside are now happening indoors, with the Count halfway up the stairs and Rosina at the top. It's hard to see why they don't elope then and there — the usual locks and bolts preventing their elopement have disappeared and Rosina seems pretty easily accessible. Parts of the set seem to alternate between being outside and in, so that we have Figaro and Almaviva propping a ladder against a wall despite being about two feet from the internal staircase. Obviously there's a need for suspension of disbelief and all that but I can't help wondering whether a happy compromise might have been reached — keep the wacky Gaudi-esque aesthetic and the 1930s setting, but use them to create a slightly more conventional (and logical) arena for the action.

Barbiere is an opera which offers up three potential protagonists. Since every intrigue turns about her — and since she's the (mezzo) soprano — it can, if so desired, be Rosina's opera. It can also be the Count's; after all, it premiered under the title Almaviva. Or it can be, just as the title suggests, an opera about Seville's most indispensable barber. It's a question of casting and of directorial vision — and in this case there's not a shadow of a doubt that Figaro is our star. José Carbo is thoroughly in his element here. Both his comic timing and his bel canto technique are effortlessly idiomatic and quite irresistible. He glides through Figaro's coloratura with rich and ringing tone and exudes such charm you'd suspect he really was born Raffaello. Certainly he was born for this role — it's obvious how completely at ease he is when he starts throwing a bit of fancy footwork in to complement the fastest passage of "Largo al factotum". Evidently nothing in this role presents a challenge for José — it's a perfect match and a total success.

Amelia Farrugia turns in a very creditable performance as Rosina. This is her debut in the role and no doubt there is improvement to come, but even on her first night there was much to admire — she sounded far better last night than the last time I heard her live (as Manon in 2005) and certainly has improved since her recital disc Joie de vivre. Her upper register was brighter and more cleanly focused than I expected, her coloratura exactly as showy and silvery as it needed to be. Her ornamentation in "Una voce poco fa" was impressive if occasionally slightly wayward; but by the time of Rosina's singing lesson she was more settled and tossed off the interpolated Proch variations with style and shimmer. There's perhaps a tendency to squeeze the highest notes just a little but it does little to detract from the undeniable prettiness of her sound. My concern, though, is that she has lavished all possible care and attention upon the top end of her voice and neglected the rest. On Tuesday her lower register sounded breathy and artificial — the recitative in particular was delivered in a mannered quasi Sprechstimme and could stand to sound a whole lot more tuneful. Onstage she's an energetic and self-assured presence. Personally I found her Rosina wholly unsympathetic, a manipulative and superficial brat, but that's just a matter of taste — like her or not, it's certainly a vivid characterisation.

As a roly-poly, happy go lucky Count Almaviva, Henry Choo is quite charming but ultimately miscast. His smooth, honeyed tenor is a gorgeous sound but it's not suited to the rapid-fire demands of Rossini and as a result he comes off sounding weaker than he really is. He sounds like a Don Ottavio who has wandered into the wrong opera — quite lovely, but out of place. The contrast with Kanen Breen's darker, more solid sound will prove telling, I suspect, when Breen takes over the role in August. Warwick Fyfe was to have been our Don Bartolo but proved indisposed — the role was taken over at (presumably) short notice and with great aplomb by Andrew Moran, in what appears to be only his third Opera Australia role. Don Basilio was my compatriot Conal Coad, in his usual fine form, done up to look repulsively Rasputinesque and pulling out all his buffo basso tricks — "La calunnia" was a comical whirlwind. Lovely, too, to see Rosemary Gunn as Berta. I'd previously only ever seen her on DVD as Cornelia in Giulio Cesare — the thirteen years since that production have apparently done little to alter her voice and it was nice that Berta was given her aria to sing.

Our maestro was, of course, Richard Bonynge. If there's anybody I'm willing to trust with bel canto, it's him. He managed to pull off that overture without turning it into musical caricature and despite the odd mishap in the pit, he had the AOBO sounding warm and vibrant all evening. He seems to have aimed not so much for rollicking farce as for commedia dell'arte panache, and I think that approach, while it mightn't have audiences bouncing up and down in their seats in rhythm, nevertheless has a definite appeal. Bonynge's tempi mightn't be the speediest but the evening flies by pleasurably just the same.

New Year's Eve

"Opera at the movies" was the unifying thread for Opera Australia's New Year's Eve gala last night. No, hardly the most unusual or unpredictable theme. Without further prompting, you could probably guess at least two thirds of the programme. There were few surprises, it's true — but what matter? Of fabulous singing, there was more than enough — and that's what it's all about, after all. Maybe I hunger occasionally for obscure baroque or endless Poulenc, but I'm still a pretty mainstream girl, and once in a while I think there's nothing better than the joyous familiarity of operatic greatest hits. Over-exposed they might be, but in most cases there's some kind of musical reason for their popularity, excessive or otherwise. So, no sneering from me; I was happy to abandon myself to an evening of easy-going gorgeousness.

The concert opened with — what else? — the William Tell overture, followed by a very charming turn by José Carbo, relishing the patter of Figaro's "Largo al factotum" while climbing a ladder and handing out flowers to women in the front row. Of course, the last time I saw José was back home in Dunedin, as Opera Otago's dashing Escamillo, and his "Votre toast" made an appearance  here too, to much adulation. Naturally we were never going to make it through the night without "Nessun dorma". There are ways to mitigate the overfamiliarity of the piece (not least of which is making even the vaguest acknowledgement of its actual context) but sadly none of these were paid the slightest heed, and we were treated instead to the pedestrian crossover stylings and jarringly forced climaxes of Rosario La Spina. Of course he received the loudest ovation of the night, but that's to be expected. His second appearance was no more impressive — Rodolfo's "Che gelida manina" and "O soave fanciulla" both likewise lacking in either musical or dramatic nuance. But the other tenor of the evening, Henry Choo, stood in stark contrast, with a sweet and lilting "Una furtiva lagrima".

On the female side of things, there was, incredibly, no "O mio babbino caro". But we did hear the other Puccini moment from A Room With A View, Magda's "Chi il bel sogno di Doretta" from La rondine. It was just one of numerous appearances by Russian soprano Elvira Fatykhova, who seemed at times to be singing half the gala single-handed. Her most impressive moment came in Violetta's "E strano...Ah, fors'e lui...Sempre libera", sung with insight and lyrical precision. She also blended beautiful with the Catherine Carby's warm, rounded sound in the duet from Lakmé — which strangely enough was ushered in without a mention of The Hunger. Carby returned later with a lush "Mon coeur s'ouvre à ta voix", suitably seductive despite a slightly rushed tempo from the orchestra.

I'm left with just one more soprano to mention — my life's delight, Yvonne. With the theme for the concert in mind, as well as her typical concert repertoire, I had my own predictions about what she might sing. But her first aria hadn't even entered my mind — "Lascia ch'io pianga. As featured (I'd forgotten this) in Farinelli, only, of course, sung far more exquisitely. I thought my chance had passed to hear her sing Handel live and with orchestra, I thought I'd found her too late for that. Not quite, it seems. And that it should be this aria  — the first track on the first of her CDs I ever owned and thus the first aria I really heard her sing. Nine years have made a difference, as does a concert hall instead of a recording studio. There's more vibrato, the ornaments are simpler, the timbre has a bit more metal (but precious metal) to it. What nine years don't change is that she sings this aria, which everyone with even the most tenuous claim to the title of soprano has attempted, with a radiant beauty and an understanding of the Handelian idiom of which the pretenders could hardly conceive, let alone match. 

And yet there was better to come. Two magic words, words which I'd tried not to let myself hope too hard for, lest they never come. But come they did — Shawshank Redemption. Yes. "Sull'aria". For me it's one of the most extraordinary beautiful pieces of music in existence. And I have the Chandos English Figaro, so I've heard her sing it before, but this was different. Hearing it live, and in Italian — and watching her sing it, seeing, if only fleetingly, her Countess Almaviva come to magical life... again these were joys I thought I should always be deprived of.

Finally came the prediction I did have right, Rusalka's Song to the Moon. In English as always— I'd adore her to sing in Czech but have long since given up on that. Like the Handel it showed the changes in her voice over the last decade and a half. This wasn't the same Rusalka as on Simple Gifts or even the 1999 gala with Bryn Terfel. Her sound is a little heavier now, the high passages require slightly more, and different, effort. The result is richer and more exciting than ever. She filled that concert hall with shining sound in a way nobody else last night approached. I think back to something I said all that time ago, after her Hanna Glawari — that even with no prior knowledge of any of the singers on stage, you still could not fail to realise that she exists on an entirely different level of artistry. There's a quality she exudes, even in silence, which distinguishes her immediately. No matter how many times I come into the presence of the glory she creates, I never get used to her — she always takes my breath away, and she always will. The fireworks in the harbour afterwards were impressive, but nothing in that display was even a fraction as amazing as she is.

Idomeneo (Pinchgut Opera)

The set might be sparse and the costumes a little on the beige side, but all the same Pinchgut Opera's Idomeneo is bursting with vivid life and colour. Directors I suppose feel obliged to do all they can to shake up this kind of Mozart, the relatively conventional (at least on the face of it) operas without the opportunities for subversion which Figaro and Don Giovanni, for instance, offer up on a plate. But thankfully enough, Lindy Hume's production for Pinchgut resists idiosyncratic directorial weirdness — no severed heads here — and just goes to the human heart of the matter. She draws, for the most part, heartfelt and convincing portrayals from her soloists, identifying the key psychological crises at play here and thus creating an intimate, tangibly personal drama. Transporting this opera, full of references to Trojans and the like, to another time or place would be at best difficult to do convincingly, at worst disastrous and absurd; so for all intents and purposes, this Idomeneo takes place in its original setting. But this scene is set in such a neutral way that it is very definitely the emotional core of the play — a father's excruciatingly untenable situation — which takes centre stage.

Love, fear, rage, jealousy: strong feelings abound in Idomeneo from its very beginning, and as events progress they only intensify further. Driving this intensity is the opera's suprisingly powerful music. Mozart had of course written opera seria before this one, but the difference is immense between the relatively unswerving conventionality of, say, Mitridate and the inspired fire which shows itself in Idomeneo. The story may be not be as fascinating or characterful as those of the Da Ponte trilogy, but it does offer the opportunity for dark and dramatic music in a way those later comedies, Don Giovanni included, can't necessarily do — and it's an opportunity Mozart seizes with both hands. There is a thrill to be had in Mozart without jokes or comical misunderstandings: last night's only laugh was the result of a somewhat poorly considered surtitle; otherwise there's light and love to be found in Idomeneo but little in the way of levity.

None of this heavy-going gorgeousness comes together, of course, without the singers who can execute it, and Pinchgut has assembled an excellent and able cast. Mark Tucker is riveting in the title role, his earthy and commanding yet flexible tenor ideally suited to the role; his detailed acting is likewise compelling, striking just the right balance between kingly gravitas and unimaginable pain. As his son, Fiona Campbell looks convincingly manly, and indeed at times even sounds it: one could almost mistake her for a countertenor. But I found her a disappointingly mousy Idamante, both vocally and dramatically: her voice too insubstantial — though cleanly focused — and bearing too awkwardly hesitant to do the role justice. The fact that Idamante appears to have been inadvertently costumed as a member of Greenpeace also doesn't help. Martene Grimson's Ilia, on the other hand, is forceful and regal enough for the both of them. Though some (me, for instance) might wish for a richer and more rounded sound, she nevertheless sings with beauty of line and thrilling commitment. In her hands, Ilia is no mere sweet and pretty princess but a fiery and determined leader, the only person on stage who's truly in control.  Her "Se il padre perdei" is a revelation — no longer an expression of hard to believe forgiveness and generosity, but rather a command: you've robbed me of home and family — that makes me your responsibility, so do your duty. Such a statement is of course a particularly heavy burden to lay on the shoulders of a father already so utterly tormented by his paternal duties. Completing the quartet of principals is Penelope Mills' electrifying (if you'll pardon the pun) Elettra. Inappropriately resplendent in royal blue among a sea of earth-toned Cretans, Elettra is clearly the outsider — the frenetic power which drives her arias is fear and alienation rather than fury. Mills' singing combines slice and scariness with exquisite phrasing and irresistibly silky tone, and she makes an unusually sympathetic Elettra. Though her jealous rants might in theory seem superfluous to the story, Penelope's performance made certain that when Elettra was singing, it was she and nobody else at the centre of the drama. When she exited after her Act III aria I wished I could follow — her story seemed, at that point, rather more fascinating than the lieto fine about to roll itself out in Crete.

The opera's smaller roles are also admirably filled. Paul McMahon is a pleasant if not hugely memorable Arbace and Didier Frédéric a suitably booming Voice; but particular mention must be made of Brett Weymark's outstanding appearance as the High Priest, whichsucceeds in making a three-dimensional character from what could easily be a faceless cameo, and is so fantastically sung one wishes a larger role could have been found for him. With far more work to do than in other Mozart operas, the chorus here (Cantillation) responds marvellously, singing with precision and power. The Orchestra of the Antipodes is just as magnificent; from them and from his singers, Antony Walker draws a muscular, blazing and beautiful performance. Pinchgut Opera offered a money back guarantee to "opera virgins" unmoved by this Idomeneo; I daresay they could make the same promise to experienced operagoers and hardened fanatics and still have no takers. Absolutely a success.

P.S. This is my 500th post. Well done me!

Operatunity Oz / Rigoletto

Now, Operatunity Oz is something I ought to write more about than I'm actually going to: what it really deserved was to be blogged as it happened, but it's too late for that now. But the winner, bass David Parkin, was pretty easy to pick right from the beginning. My personal favourite among the six finalists, tenor (and surely one of the nicest people in the world) Roy Best, was a runner up; soprano Emily Burke was the other. I think the competition went exactly the way it ought to. Despite my incredibly conspicuous bias towards female voices (or perhaps because of it) none of the three sopranos to make the final impressed me hugely: none of them had that thing, whatever it is, that makes a girl like me smile and swoon and spend a million dollars on tickets. Roy did though, at least a little bit. David Parkin was always at an advantage on account of having such a rare voice - in an early audition, when conductor and panelist Richard Gill had him boom out a few lines of Magic Flute dialogue, it was clear he had serious promise. The voice, the look, the physical presence and the acting ability. There was also a wildcard among the six, John Roehrig, a plumber with an infectious love of singing but basically no musical training who, as appealing as he was, was ultimately more than anything else an advertisement for the necessity of a musical education. What the panel managed to do with him in the short time they had was incredible. Particularly amazing was the way in which the one and only Yvonne transformed his "E lucevan le stelle" — a testament perhaps more even to her own mindblowing to talent than to Roehrig's potential, but then I would say that. 

That's it in an entirely inadequate nutshell. But it's enough to lead up to the main thing I want to write about, which is Rigoletto. Being the Mozart-Handel-Strauss girl I am, I'm very good at neglecting the Italian repertoire. The Met broadcast with Anna Netrebko was the first time I'd heard Rigoletto from start to finish, and my trip to Rigoletto on October 24th was my first time seeing it live. And I mightn't have gone under normal circumstances — but this particular performance was the one which marked the culmination/prize of Operatunity. David Parkin, as the winner, sang Sparafucile; Roy and Emily, as runners-up, sang the Duke and Gilda respectively in Act Three. In the stalls, dozens of family members, a shouting and supportive audience and five beaming proud panelists  — Richard Gill, Yvonne of course, vocal coach par excellence Anna Connolly, the fabulously sharptongued director Elke Neidhardt, and soprano Antoinette Halloran (who, if she has the voice to match, must be Australia's answer to Anna Moffo.)

Because of the special nature of this Rigoletto I have to deal with in two halves. So. The Operatunity half first. David was absolutely a success. My cheap-as-they-come seat meant I couldn't see him during most of his first appearance but I could certainly hear him and there was no doubt he proved himself entirely worthy of his prize. You can't judge a singer in this situation by the usual standards, of course; you can't expect a world-class Sparafucile from someone who's never sung opera on stage in his life. But for what it was, it was pretty damn good. Roy's turn in Act Three was something I was particularly anticipating and he was wonderful, negotiating "La donna e mobile" with far more swagger than, just a few weeks earlier, anyone would ever have expected of him. Emily Burke's nerves were evident but in the end she basically pulled it off, and my sympathies were with her — Gilda's final act must be hard enough for any soprano, but to be obliged to do it without the psychological preparation of the rest of the opera must make it even more difficult.

And now to the rest of the cast. This far removed from the performance there's only so much I can remember. I know that Warwick Fyfe in the title role took some time to convince me but did eventually do so, especially once he started getting properly vengeful. Somehow I'd missed the fact that Dunedin's Own Jud Arthur was even in the cast — it wasn't until I'd spent a minute or so thinking, isn't this Monterone brilliant that I realised it was him, sounding just fantastic and looking quite terrifying. Singing Maddalena was the always wonderful Roxane Hislop, whose dark and (this is probably a strange word to choose but never mind) curvacious mezzo I absolutely love — and lord knows I've had plenty of chances to appreciate it, since she appeared in both Il signor Bruschino and Falstaff. But as the Duke, Rosario La Spina disappointed me even more than he did at the OA anniversary gala — the voice is undeniably attractive, but the further it's pushed (and he certainly does push it) the more he sounds to me like a Neapolitan street singer or a crossover star out of his element. I believe he was once a Ten Tenor. This doesn't surprise me at all. By the end of Act One I couldn't wait till the final act, when we'd get Roy instead and with him, a bit more grit and, to my tastes, a much more attractive timbre.

But what I'm working up to, in typically longwinded fashion, is, of course, a soprano. Natalie Jones. Number one candidate for my local diva. I saw Natalie as Musetta here last year, and she was excellent. All the same I was unprepared for the vocal splendour of her Gilda, strong and secure but still girlishly silvered, with a rainbow of colours at her disposal and a very respectable trill to boot. These days I feel like I've exhausted my standard soprano vocabulary somewhat — I'll need a good deal more Natalie before I can choose some words individually suited to her. Thankfully, with a little patient, this shan't be too difficult a task. Next year she's Morgana, Blonde, and Casilda in (sigh) The Gondoliers. Given that in the first two she's singing opposite Emma Matthews, I'm all for encouraging a Bordoni/Cuzzoni-style feud between the two. I know whose side I'd be cheering for in the ensuing catfight but, alas, I fear Opera Australia is unlikely to programme Bononcini any time soon. Never mind — there's a new Natalie in my musical life and she's brilliant.