Prima la musica, poi le parole

The Merry Widow at Opera Holland Park

I spent my last night in London at Opera Holland Park for The Merry Widow. Going was a spur of the moment decision, and I was lucky to get a ticket. In more ways than one, it was a perfect finish to my stay – an evening at the venue which was the centre of, and reason for, the whole trip, seeing the opera which started it all: it was, after all, The Merry Widow which brought me to Yvonne in the first place.

That last point's not an insignificant one. For as long as I've had any sense of this operetta, Yvonne has been my only Hanna Glawari. Not just in a spiritual sense, but literally. All the music — not just Hanna's – immediately says Yvonne to me, before it says anything else. There's a whole tangled web of emotional associations at work, more so even than I realised: until the overture began and I more or less burst into tears. So I really wasn't sure how I was going to cope with a new Hanna, how to deal with the comparison. Well, problem solved. Rebecca Caine's Hanna was about as far from Yvonne's in every respect as it could possibly have been. Two brilliant, beautiful Hannas, but worlds apart. Just as their respective musical backgrounds would suggest, Yvonne's Hanna is operatic in every sense, Rebecca's Hanna in every sense a creature of musical theatre. She didn't suffer by comparison, simply because there was no sensible comparison to be made.

The production is brilliant, a high camp roaring-Twenties update which works splendidly. The Act II folk dance which preceded Vilja has been, in a stroke of genius, transformed into something by Busby Berkeley, full of bathing beauties and anyone-for-tennis choreography. Operetta is supposed to be funny but that doesn't mean it necessarily is — but in this instance it's hilarious, one of the funniest shows (of any kind) I've seen in a long time. That's thanks not only to excellent direction but to a cast of talented actors whose delivery of the dialogue is spot-on. Rebecca Caine captured the essence of Hanna and of the era charmingly, partnered by the not quite so convincing but nevertheless likeable Danilo of Philip Salmon. But even better, in my view, was Charlotte Page's Valencienne, whose comic timing and outrageous French accent were both impeccable. Oliver White, too, made a nicely over-the-top and flouncing Njegus. As for vocal thrills, well, there weren't so many. Chacun à son goût, of course – for me, as a purely aural experience, I prefer my operetta a little more operatic. In fact for me the vocal highlight of this show came in Valencienne's Act III turn as a grisette, where Charlotte Page threw off all vestiges of operetta singing and turned sultry cabaret singer, just about stealing the show in the process. Otherwise the singing here was fine, mostly, but not overwhelmingly excellent and certainly in no case the most interesting thing about anybody's performance. But it mattered not a jot. This was some of the best fun I've had at a theatre for who knows how long, a tight, witty and hugely enjoyable Merry Widow. I wish I could have stayed to see it again and again. In fact I'd go so far as to say it's the kind of Merry Widow production which Yvonne, both of whose were a little on the heavy-handed side, deserved. Now how's that for high praise?

Mostly Mozart

(Rather than one impossibly long post, I'm splitting my London adventures into a series of slightly less impossibly long posts. Here's the first, more to come once I've slept.)

Così fan tutte

Without really thinking about it I ended up booked for three Mozart operas in three weeks, which was a rather pleasant sort of accident. First up was Cosi fan tutte at Sadler's Wells, presented by the Classical Opera Company. One of those productions - you know the sort of thing - where one sees all the stage at once, the parts usually on display and the parts usually not. Which no doubt makes some point about the theatricality of life and deception in romance and The Masks We Wear or something but in the end I think it was neither here or there: the people singing were on a proper stage in the middle of it all so one's attention was naturally drawn there anyway. Excellent singing from a clutch of important young artists. The important thing, as far as we're concerned down at this end of the world, is of course Anna Leese's Fiordiligi which I'm happy to report was a gorgeous performance. I heard a yet better one from her the following week (on which more in a moment) but still, this was fantastic. I daresay it will get even better in the course of the glittering career Anna indisputably has ahead of her. (Actually it's already pretty glittering, what with the Proms next month and Covent Garden in the offing.) Perhaps objectivity is mingled here with hometown bias but still I do think that, had Anna been entirely new to me, I'd be just as enamoured of her voice as I presently am. Though I've liked her a lot ever since I first heard her (a one-note solo in a Tower NZ Youth Choir performance), this Fiordiligi was the first time I've really sat up and thought oh my. The rest of the cast was likewise excellent though none quite to striking to my ears as Anna. Jacques Imbrailo's Guglielmo was a particular pleasure, however, and Rebecca Bottone something of a scene-stealer as Despina. As far as the comedy went I thought the women made a slightly better show of it than the men, particularly the sisters' ability to collapse on cue. One final touch: the show opened with snippets of "In Napoli" and "That's Amore" before moving into the overture as a waiter swept up the café which was to provide the stage.  Maybe not to everybody's tastes but it made me smile.

Il re pastore

The Classical Opera Company again, but this time at the Barbican as part of their Mostly Mozart festival. Now this is not exactly the world's most riveting opera. But it is nice to hear Mozart which, while familiar in that it's Mozart, isn't actually something I knew at all, apart from the big hit in Act II. I can't claim to have been overjoyed with all of the performances: Martene Grimson as Aminta was pleasant enough but a little monochromatic after a while, and in her more treacherously acrobatic passages, not as commanding as a king (even a shepherd king) ought to be. Rebecca Bottone was the lilting love interest Elisa, sounding very pretty indeed. Andrew Staples, who was Ferrando in Così, appeared here as Alessandro. He's a wonderful singer but I liked him far better in that than in Il re pastore, and I had the impression he was rather happier there too. Mark Le Brocq's Agenore was on rather steadier ground, if at times somewhat on the rigid side. But shining brighter than all of them combined was Anna Leese's Tamiri. Gorgeous as her Fiordiligi was, this was the performance which had me signing up for the fan club. I'd have been happy to praise her purely out of loyalty but it makes me even happier not to need to. Rather, I sat there in my restricted (ie side on) view seat cursing all involved in the opera's creation for relegating Tamiri to a secondary role, thinking reprehensible thoughts like: let's give her all of Elisa's arias and perhaps Aminta's too for good measure. This sort of voice makes such thoughts entirely pardonable: luxurious, goldenly glowing, dangerously delectable; never ever a boring beauty but rich with characterful colour and personality. Not merely a lovely sound but also by far the most interesting one to be heard on stage that night.

Don Giovanni

Yet another night at the Barbican (not that repeated attendance makes it any easier to find one's way around) for my favourite Mozart opera, performed by the starriest cast I've ever shared air with. A few days earlier I'd received an email informing me that Dietrich Henschel, the originally cast Don Giovanni, had been obliged to withdraw - but that that they were "delighted to announce" that Ildebrando d'Arcangelo would take his place. Well, I was delighted too. Dietrich Henschel is no doubt a fine Giovanni but it's not a name which carries any great resonance for me. Ildebrando d'Arcangelo, on the other hand, I know and like. Quite a lot. Add to that my schoolgirl style excitement at the prospect of Patrizia Ciofi and the presence of several other promisingly familiar names: Lorenzo Regazzo, Alexandrina Pendatchanska and Evelino Pido conducting and, well... I was very, very happy. And rightly so. Though once again in the cheap seats, a million miles from the stage, I was in bliss. With the opening chord, Evelino Pido and Concerto Köln wrapped me tightly around their collective little fingers and that was that. I could have left before Leporello even arrived on stage and been utterly contented. But then, the singing wasn't bad either. Ildebrando did not disappoint. He was a perilously likeable and wickedly funny Giovanni, so plainly unashamed of his bad behaviour that it was difficult to judge it as such. Maybe I could have wished to be slightly closer, or for his singing to have carried slightly more bite to it, but then maybe not. In any case, Lorenzo Ragazzo's sure-footed Leporello was an ideal foil, singing with such style and spirit one almost wondered at times just who was in charge. E la mia Patrizia? Bellissima in her scarlet dress, her Donna Anna an extraordinary experience. She's mesmerising, that voice so soft and pretty, but startingly intense, precise and penetrating. Quite inescapable, I fear. She was, if not matched, at least ably supported by Francesco Meli's touching and surprisingly passionate Ottavio. Alexandrina Pendachantska's powerhouse of an Elvira was a stark contrast to Patrizia's Anna, powerful, vengeful and a little larger than life, teetering on the edge of melodrama and yet so sincere as never quite to become laughable. Alessangro Luongo was a fine, if not hugely individual Masetto. Which leaves only Zerlina, the magnificent Anna Bonitatibus. I've always found Zerlina a singularly tiresome and unlikeable character and by association have never been too wild about her music either, except quite out of context and in the most exquisite of hands. Mostly her arias - and even "La ci darem la mano" - have tended to drag for me, as I wait for one of the real women, for Elvira or Anna, to return. But as I mentioned the other day: evidently nobody informed Anna Bonitatibus of any of this, and thus with her very first note I immediately fell quite madly in love, not just with her voice but, yes, with her Zerlina. For the first time in my life, I missed Zerlina when she wasn't on stage, waited impatiently for her return, wished that by some miracle the rarely performed Zerlina-Leporello duet would be included just so I could hear her sing some more. Finally I could understand the appeal of her, the temptations on offer in her two arias, Masetto's inability to stay angry. Nobody could withstand such a Zerlina: least of all me. I'm a fan.

Fedora at Opera Holland Park

Alright. Time, at long last, to write a word or two about Fedora. Time flies, it seems, when you're having such melodramatic and espionage-filled fun. Can't believe I've seen two already, and I'm more than a little distressed to think there's only one left.

Of the music I'm not entirely sure what to say. It's grand, ever-changing, Puccini-esque though without all of that composer's detailed dramatic sense. No arias, exactly, but plenty of thrilling moments. All of it is very verismo and let's be honest, that's never been my musical home. But oh, it's wonderful fun all the same. For me it feels like a fabulous chance to revel in the gifts that opera - any opera - sends us. Music, drama, high emotion, pretty frocks, Byzantine crosses, phantom nihilists and fantastic singing. Especially the last item. Maybe the twisting, turning, letter-writing plot can't be taken entirely seriously but the performers...oh my, they certainly can. Australian tenor Aldo di Toro has had all the reviewers raving, and justifiably so; soprano Natasha Marsh who sings the Countess Olga is definitely another name to watch - and that's only the beginning. In fact, that it's really quite easy to forget that you're supposed to think it's a second (or third) rate opera. Because when you're sitting in such a lovely theatre, watching such thrilling and engaged performances and hearing such glorious singing, well, that's just heaven isn't it, regardless of the opera.

Heaven. And so, of course, an angel in residence. Yvonne Kenny is a magnetic, fiery Fedora, miraculously combining grand gestures and regal bearing with an engaging vulnerability, so that while always very much a royal presence, she's also beautifully sympathetic throughout all Fedora's (many) trials and tribulations. Funny how things work out: this whole experience has been, on a number of levels, so very unexpected. On the flight from Hong Kong to London, with not a single decent movie on offer, I listened instead to Offenbach's Robinson Crusoe. Surely nobody in their right mind would hear Yvonne's Edwige there, so sparkling and so sweet, and predict, of all things, Fedora for her future. But along it's come all the same, out of the blue and thank god it did. And in fact I think that those things which seem to make her a less than obvious Fedora are exactly what make her such a success in the role. The core of her career has been the three composers who are the core of my musical life too, Handel, Mozart and Strauss. So that while she mightn't be the red-blooded, Italianate Diva with a capital D which the genre perhaps more regularly expects, she instead brings to the role the exquisite refinement and aristocratic lyricism of a Marschallin or a Countess Almaviva. And I doubt it's every Marie Therese who could pull off the part but this one definitely can - and then some. Thrilling enough on Wednesday, the first peformance I saw, on Friday she surpassed herself to give what was among the most brilliant and beautiful vocal performances I think I've ever heard from her, be it live or recorded. And beautiful is an important word here. Having a lyric soprano in a role like this is a wonderful thing, especially for someone like me and having my favourite soprano there is even better: she offers intense, dramatic singing but never bereft of that delicate silver sheen I adore so much. For my own tastes there's simply no better way to hear this sort of music. Obviously I'm beyond biased, but I don't think you'd need to be mad like me to appreciate how extraordinary this woman is: however unpredictable the repertoire, intelligence, commitment and devastating beauty are without fail guaranteed.

Fedora

Fedora might call itself verismo but what it plays like to me, more than anything else, is a 1930s MGM period drama. Clearly a Greta Garbo vehicle, with Robert Taylor as her leading man (not John Gilbert, whom I can't abide) and Maureen O'Sullivan, the capricious Countess Olga. Not that I've seen the opera yet, or even heard it, but I've read it. I decided from the start to let myself be surprised by the music but it seemed like a good idea to come to grips with the text: after all, with a soprano as lovely and as compelling as Greta herself onstage, can I really be expected to bother looking at surtitles? Course not. And being the dedicated kind of lunatic I am, I've ended up by memorising the thing, more or less.

Poor Fedora. All the synopses sell her as merely a vengeful Russian princess, but it's a rash and passionate kind of vengeance, not something cold and calculated. Though she does manage quite deftly to tempt her fiancé's murderer into her web, her true talent (and weakness) is falling desperately in love. First she loves an utter creep, the perfidious Vladimiro; then somebody (theoretically) worthy, the man who killed him, Loris Ipanoff. Both Act I and Act III begin with Fedora passionately in love and declaring it left, right and centre. Repeatedly she affirms her belief in Vladimiro's fidelity: "O grandi occhi lucenti di fede" she says, looking at his photograph, and in the same speech, "Ascolto qui gli appelli del labbro suo fedel". What's devastating is not just that she's mistaken but that, as we'll discover, he's at that moment in the act of being unfaithful. She's waiting for him, praising him to high heaven, and he doesn't deserve a word of it. Before he arrives home, she turns accidentally prophetic, declaring that she feels a new life beginning for her here in this room. She sees marital bliss — but within minutes her fiancé is brought home, mortally wounded. He dies, and a new life really has begun for Fedora. Filled with angry, vengeful love for Vladimiro, she pursues his killer. And then she falls in love with him, and he with her — and with Loris, she actually finds all the things she thought she had with Vladimiro. He is faithful, he does adore her. But Act I started with outpourings of love and ended in death and so does Act III: but this time it's Fedora, not her man, who dies.

In between there's the mandatory operatic Parisian party. This one even comes with a Chopin clone, his nephew supposedly: who turns out to be a spy. Along with the party comes the tiresomely capricious Countess Olga. Did I mention she was capricious? She's also capricious. And capricious. And eager to remind her admirers of that fact whenever the occasion arises. Later, having established that she's actually rather capricious and, in the third act, that nature irritates her, she sings about a bicycle. As one does. It's some kind of metaphor: when she's done, Loris suggests she find a tandem. But anyway.

Fedora starts out the charming hostess with the mostess but soon directs all her attentions and best interrogation methods towards Loris, drawing out a confession to piano accompaniment. Foolishly enough, she's managed to more or less fall in love with him before discovering that the murder was a nice, justifiable crime of passion — and not, as she originally thinks, some kind of nihilist plot. One might understand if, having discovered her fiancé was such a nasty piece of work, she might feel inclined to like his killer: but, though she's still willing to take her revenge upon him before knowing the whole truth, her feelings for him are already pretty well established. "Non l'odio quanto dovrei", she tells De Siriex: I don't hate him as much as I ought. That fact becomes ever more obvious. Unfortunately her timing and decision-making skills are somewhat, well, lacking: and so by the time she has her full confession, realises that she loves him to bits and doesn't want him to die, a letter (one of many) has been sent to Russia and a trap has already been set at her orders . No choice but to keep him with her all night. Loris turns momentarily into Shirley Jones — "People will say we're in love" — but does as she asks, and stays.

Act I was St. Petersburg, Act II Paris and now for Act III, the Swiss Alps, and domestic bliss aplenty. Oh Fedora, have you learned nothing from Violetta or Manon? It's like watching a horror movie and wondering why the blonde doesn't hear the spooky music and think, perhaps I shouldn't go down there. It's opera and there's no way this will end happily. It doesn't, of course: and it's a nastily speedy downwards spiral. After just a moment or two of rather unbearably sweet coupledom ("Ancora?" exclaims Olga, discovering the two of them locked in embrace. "Sempre!" they reply in unison) De Siriex pays a visit while Loris goes to the post office — the news his letters bring is also the purpose of De Siriex' visit. In a suitably complex chain of revenge and letter-writing, Fedora has managed indirectly to bring about the deaths of Loris' brother and sainted mother. De Siriex sets off on a bicycle race with Olga (how capricious of her!) and Fedora is left to deal with Loris, who returns home bounding with happiness but is soon a tearful mess. Now Loris is the one who craves vengeance, and it is Fedora who has a confession to make. But the forgiveness she so readily gave him is not so easily obtained this time. Before Loris has even realised that the mysterious Russian woman responsible for all this trouble is Fedora herself, she begs and begs on "her" behalf for his pity. Like Lois Lane, he's blind to the obvious, as she puts a supposedly hypothetical situation in front of him: perhaps she's not a spy. Perhaps she just loved Vladimiro. You could understand why she'd act this way, no?

No. He works it out eventually and she's forced to find his forgiveness (and her own) the only way left: she poisons herself. She told her party guests in Act II that inside the cross she wears, she kept a medicine which could heal any sickness. This is the sickness, and so she drinks the cure.  She dies forgiven, and loved, but nevertheless she dies. Fedora blames herself for everything, which helps her find happiness in death as it approaches — "L'amore è ingiusto, buona è la morte" — but she shouldn't. If anyone's to blame it's the awful Vladimiro; and neither should Loris get off scot-free. He makes a point of telling Fedora how little remorse he feels for killing Vladimiro. She, on the other hand, tries once to kill him and then goes out of her way to save him; and when she feels responsible for the deaths of his mother and brother, punishes herself. Vengeful princess, yes: but that's far from all that she is.

It's all rather melodramatic, yes, and rather silly at times. Fedora's effusions over Vladimiro in Act I are rivalled in laughable floridity only by Loris in Act III, when he manages to call her a flower six times in seven lines. But at the same time there is a genuine and earthbound tragedy to her. Like Violetta, though constantly surrounded by friends and suitors, she seems always alone somehow; and though she loves, and loves deeply, only rarely and briefly is she allowed to enjoy that love before it's ruined for her.

If my trip to Fedora weren't the mad act of divadienst it is, I doubt I'd have gone to the effort of thinking so much about all of this. And even if I had, chances are I wouldn't feel nearly so obliged to be on Fedora's side. But it's just like when I watch a Greta Garbo film: whatever she does, however badly or foolishly her character behaves, it's Greta Garbo and thus, by definition, she's always in the right and her leading men are always unworthy. So, because I have cause to love this particular Fedora, I'm biased in favour of Fedora generally. Love of a soprano isn't just fun and decadance, I suppose: it can be educational too. A couple of months ago I'd never have foreseen writing the thousands of words I have here about a verismo heroine and yet, here I am. And all of this, as I say, before I've heard even a note of the music. When that does happen, it will change everything, I'm sure. Best to have got this out of the way now: you know how verbose La voix humaine made me, so think of this as a pre-emptive strike.

Just a week and two days and I'll be there at Holland Park for my very first Fedora. Opera Holland Park's first Fedora, however, is in just a couple of days, and I'll be there too, in spirit. With such a sublime leading lady, it cannot be anything but a triumph.

Falstaff

You know, I was happy enough with just the bare fact of a Salieri opera happening in Dunedin. This a city where even the operas of Mozart are rarities. The Australasian premiere of a genuine rarity: ma foi, I doubt it would ever have occured to me even to dream of such a treat.  Yet here it is and, lo and behold, it's a triumph.

Opera Otago has assembled for its Falstaff a line-up of accomplished singers who shine both individually and in ensemble. If there exists occasionally a tendency for singers to project in a manner more akin to musical theatre than opera, it's understandable given the tiny theatre, the (translated) English libretto and many cast members' relative lack of operatic experience - not to mention opening night nerves. In any case it's far from a major issue: Salieri's music simply doesn't afford many opportunities for anything other than an operatic approach, and those singers who do fall into the trap never remain there for more than a moment or two.

A few weeks ago I described the women in this Falstaff as more or less my fantasy cast for any opera produced in Dunedin. I'm both gratified and proud to report that they are, indeed, the stuff of dreams - and very sweet dreams at that; and while I don't tend to dream too frequently of tenors and baritones, the male cast members here match in almost every instance the splendour of their female counterparts.

Rising Australian baritone Derek Welton is majestic in the title role. It's difficult to imagine a voice better suited to the part: opulent, authorative tone, liquid legato, impressive agility and near-flawless English diction combining to create a memorable performance. Director Jacqueline Coates' 1930s update has removed some of the character's broad Shakespearean colour, re-casting Sir John as a small town swindler, but Welton indulges all the same in some brilliant buffoonery, his mellifluous yet subtly gravelly vocalism a perfect match for his shabbily lascivious Falstaff. It's hard to believe (though not surprising given the rarity of the opera) that this production marks his début in the rôle, or that Welton is just twenty-three years old. He's a natural stage animal in remarkable command of his material who deserves a shining future: a future which I've little doubt will sooner or later include Verdi's fat knight.

Mistress Ford is sung with verve and polish by soprano Fiona Henry. Her Alice is not so much scheming noblewoman as blithe coquette, a young wife who, were her suitor less repulsive, might just justify her husband's suspicions. She's a vivid soubrette in a role where one might expect a slightly creamier lyric voice, but given that youthful characterisation, she's well cast. The caution audible in some of Mistress Ford's more challenging moments is unnecessary: this is brilliant, characterful singing which needn't shy away from anything.

Her co-conspirator, Claire Barton's Mistress Slender, is in every way an ideal foil, sung with rich, rounded tone and impeccable comic timing. Though both women are given a solo aria or two, their loveliest and most interesting music comes in duet, and vocally the pair is a perfect match. The two voices blend to truly heavenly effect, and their rapport with one another is obvious. Thankfully Mistress Slender has a rather meatier role than Meg Page, her Verdian equivalent, and Claire takes full advantage.

The two husbands, Ford and Slender, are sung by Derek Hill and Matthew Landreth respectively. It's another effective pairing, Hill's forceful, if sometimes forced, tenor forming a sharp contrast to Matthew's gentle and soft-grained baritone. Ford here is slightly reminiscent of a Handelian heroine, vacillating in his arias between florid devotion and jealous madness; his music, too, reflects his over-the-top emotional state, gently mocking the opera seria idiom. After a rather shaky opening night, Hill was in noticeably better form for the second performance. Even better is Matthew Landreth as Mr Slender, a true gentleman and patient voice of reason. Salieri has given him cruelly little to sing, but what there is he handles with poise and elegance, giving what is surely one of his best performances to date.

Asthe Fords' maid Betty - a role invented by the librettist - Alethea Chittenden is at times in danger of stealing the show. An experienced performer, whose diverse musical credits range from Bach to Anthony Ritchie by way of Sondheim and Die Fledermaus, she's dramatically the strongest presence on stage, personable and winningly high-spirited. It's a convincing and vocally gorgeous performance; but she's a chambermaid whose silken, subtly mature timbre and nobility of both phrasing and bearing are more suggestive of Contessa Almaviva than any kind of servant. It's not the largest voice but it's exquisitely shaped, rose-hued and graceful.

Bruce McMillan fills the piece's other servant rôle as Falstaff's long-suffering batman Bardolfo. It's not the most idiomatic or even the most operatic performance, hovering instead between Gilbert and Sullivan and Henry Higgins-style sprechstimme. It's a rather incongruous approach, and I'd have preferred a properly operatic treatment; but as your standard comic valet, all winking asides and cheeky grins, he's effective enough, and a crowd pleaser. Rounding out the cast are Nicole Evans and Karl Reid as Mr and Mrs Swallow, characters apparently invented for this production in order to swell the ensembles. Their unexplained and textually unacknowledge presence on stage is thus slightly odd, but vocally it's a joy to hear from them, even if very very briefly.

Unusually for me, I wrote a few notes for this review. One of them read, simply "HOLLY!!!". It's hardly the most eloquent or insightful thing one can say about a conductor, but it's a reflection of the inspired and brilliant work of Holly Mathieson. With sensitivity and precision, she gives a cohesive, flowing and thrillingly nuanced reading of the score, making it difficult to believe that she hasn't been absorbing this style for decades. The Southern Sinfonia has rarely sounded better, the colourful, effervescent orchestration unfolding with style and surprising beauty, partnering the singers perfectly and never once overpowering them. It's only a shame that the overture in this production plays with the curtain up and the Act I party already in progress: this orchestra and its extraordinary maestra need no aids to excitement.

There's a great deal more to be said: about the production, about the English translation, about the opera itself. It's all brewing: I've already written more than enough for one night, and I still have three performances left to attend. Leave it at this for now: Opera Otago's Falstaff is just the delicious treat I hoped for, and more besides. My congratulations and gratitude to all involved: you've achieved something rather special.

Falstaff

Opera Australia's production of Verdi's Falstaff is a visual match to the music: at once exquisitely beautiful and bursting with warts-and-all human vitality. The scenes are colour-coded: the Garter Inn drenched in deep reds and scarlets, the market resplendently green, Alice's kitchen in luminous creams and soft yellows. Thus Falstaff writes the women's matching notes on red paper; when, in the following scene, they compare and then tear up their notes (in rhythm to "quell'otre, quel tino") the paper has turned green. With gorgeous period costumes and detailed sets, the effect is of a Dutch Master brought to life: not flat and tableau-like, but living, breathing art. The final scene, the antler-sporting Falstaff's humiliation in the forest, deserves particular mention too: with snow falling from the sky and steam rising up from the ground, it's difficult not to be just as fooled as Falstaff is by the apparition of Nannetta and her luminous "fairies" (a chorus of women who ought to be congratulated for singing and acting while moving about on their knees) - the atmosphere so genuinely magical that one could be forgiven for forgetting it's all a joke.

English bass Stephen Richardson, in his role debut, meets the role's dramatic and vocal requirements admirably. It's a taxing part and by closing night he was showing signs of fatigue, but only to a very slight and entirely understandable degree. Though a bass, the high end of Falstaff's tessitura appeared to present no serious problems, his singing throughout steady and pleasingly resonant, with just the right flavour of amiable gravity one looks for in a Falstaff. The same characteristic informed his acting, too, and he was a knight so cheerful and enthusiastic in his lechery and bad behaviour that he was impossible to dislike - and at times almost boyishly appealing.

Yvonne Kenny's Alice Ford is a masterpiece of elegance, charisma and vocal flair. The sound of her voice at this point is suited perfectly to Alice: full, bright and forthright, with just enough slice to dominate the ensembles to a fitting degree and more than enough lyric loveliness to float Alice's solo passages perfectly. The starlit darkness which maturity has brought to her lower register lends an engagingly knowing, world-wise air to her performance, while the agility of her youth, still intact, keeps her Alice vivacious and sweet throughout. She remains steadfastly impervious to Falstaff's clumsy attempts at seduction but takes obvious pleasure in the sport. Her comic timing is impeccable, she's radiantly beautiful (fulgida Alice indeed) and she sings with polish and security, all the way up to the glorious high C which is her final note, crowning and concluding a captivating performance.

Among the rest of the cast, the clear audience favourites were the young lovers Nannetta and Fenton, sung by Hye Seoung Kwon and Andrew Goodwin. Kwon is a member of Opera Australia's Young Artists' Development programme and even this early in her career made a strong impression, singing with charm, spirit and some gorgeous high notes. Goodwin is undeniably something very special, the owner of a pure, limpid and colour-rich tenor voice, along with an instantly appealing stage manner and the clean-cut good looks of a Disney movie prince. Alice's neighbours and co-conspirators were sung by two delightful mezzo sopranos, both of whom I had heard once before. Roxane Hislop was adorable as Marianna in Il Signor Bruschino and I said then I'd like to hear her in something more substantial: I wasn't disappointed. Fiona Janes appears as Dorabella to Yvonne Kenny's Fiordiligi in the 1990 film from Opera Australia: she's outstanding there and her warm and resonant tone here made for a gorgeously sung Quickly, even if she has yet to realise the role's full comic potential (this was another role debut). Michael Lewis' ringing baritone rendered his Ford a commanding presence, his "E sogno..." a truthful and serious moment in the midst of all the burlesque. Falstaff's sometime sidekicks were brought to comically repellent life by Shane Lowrencev (a beer-swilling, crotch-scratching Pistol) and Christopher Dawes, as a hilarious Bardolph, particularly so when unveiled as Dr Caius' new wife, chasing him about the stage, skirts lifted.

Brought together they formed a superb cast, interacting with ease as a brilliant ensemble but each performer nevertheless individualised and excellent in their own right, nobody blending seamlessly into the background, nobody bland or invisible. They were aided, of course, by the attentive and energetic conducting of Giovanni Reggioli who drew lively and idiomatic playing from the orchestra, not to mention a loudly appreciative audience response every night.

It's funny, you know. After four (not to mention five) performances of Love in Two Acts, I felt like I knew Il Signor Bruschino better than I ever wished to; and La voix humaine made its way not just under my skin but into my bloodstream, presumably for good. Four of Falstaff, however, and though it has certainly become a familiar friend, my greatest sense is still is of the complexity, the detail and the jokes which I've yet to grasp. La voix humaine, if I make the effort, can play in my head pages at a time. Falstaff, unsurprisingly, comes in fits and starts, a snatch of melody here, a flurry of strings there and oh-so-much staccato. Its near-infinite riches are, I think, better left that way, the depths always slightly unplumbed. Four performances in a fortnight is enough; I wouldn't want to hear it every week. Better to leave it a while, return every now and then to a new and shiny little discovery. I like it a great deal but I'd prefer not to know it backwards when it is precisely the robust and colourful spontaneity of the opera which makes it such fun, and such genius.

Post mortem

From the score, all we know about the conclusion of La voix humaine is this: the telephone cord wrapped around her neck ("J'ai ta voix autour de mon cou") and the phone itself clasped to her, she lies in bed, tells him she's strong and then shouts at him to end it now, to hang up. Her last words are a series of ever softer "je t'aime" until the receiver falls to the ground and curtain drops.

In Rachel McDonald's production for Opera Australia, there's an added layer. The eagle-eyed (and the human-eyed whose gaze, unlike mine, wasn't trained immovably on Yvonne) might have spotted the clues before the revealing moment. I didn't. However, her lover's hat is on the floor. His scarf is on the bed. His gloves are on the telephone table. As she tells him is dog is "off his food" and hasn't moved for days, we can plainly see that the dog is lying dead in front of the fire. When she sings to her lover, "I know I've hurt you very much" she looks briefly towards the mantlepiece, and on it is what looks like a very mangled fire poker. Can you see what's coming? When they're cut off for the last time, he rings back but this time she doesn't answer: the phone slides up the wall and disappears, and she continues singing without it. She puts on his favourite red dress, which she told him in the beginning she was wearing, and some earrings, fixes her hair and makeup, and turns to greet an imaginary lover. Then she takes her barbiturate-laced whiskey, kneels down, says "I love you, I love you, I love you....love you" and drinks - and the sheet falls off her bed, and there's her murdered lover.

Leaving the theatre five times, I've heard a few theories as to just what went on. Does the point where she puts down the phone for good mark the moment where he came around - hence her greeting - and she killed him? This makes some sense, but for the fact that, especially on a second viewing, she subtly but undeniably talks to him with the knowledge that she has already killed him. As I mentioned, she looks at the fire poker when she says "I know I've hurt you very much." There are other lines sung with similar suggestiveness: "maybe [the dog] thinks I've caused you some harm" she sings, not innocently but with a touch of menace; and when she responds to some comment of his with "how could imagine me doing something so dreadful" (I paraphrase, I only have the French text and my memory of the translation) she rans her hand slowly across her dress, which she has lain on top of the bed and thus on top of his body. It would seem, then, that the entire conversation takes place after the fact.

Who's on the other end of the phone then? The devil, somebody suggested, perhaps responding to a reviewer's observation that the opera, with its skewed expressionist sets, appeared to take place in an apartment in "the lower reaches of hell". I don't think it's the devil. I think it's truly nobody, just in the way that she, with no name, is essentially nobody. My feeling is that the entire conversation takes place after she kills herself, that it is to some an extent a recreation of the events leading to her suicide, but also a sort of extended mad scene, an invented conversation. It's interesting that phone, technically speaking, never actually rings: the ring comes from the xylophone in the orchestra. If the constant disconnections and crossed lines are a reflection of her mental state, then surely it's possible (though I certainly don't think it's the only possible spin) that the entire conversation is itself a reflection of that mental state. Adding to that imaginary aspect, I wonder if perhaps it's a recreation not of a conversation they had, but of the conversation they would have had, if she hadn't killed him instead. Then again, perhaps she didn't kill him at all, perhaps that's her imagination. After all, it's only a dummy in the bed.

But you know what? For all these ideas, I'm perfectly happy to go without an explanation. I don't think that there is one. These additions to plot seems to me more atmospheric and suggestive than narrative: there is no need for the various twists to be strung together into a coherent 'what-really-happened' story, they merely exist as suggestions, as aspects of a fragmented consciousness. I come back again to the concept of the opera as a 40 minute mad scene, or death scene. Who is to say what is 'real' here and what is not? The set is stylisted; the dialogue on the other hand painfully realistic. Maybe when she tried to kill herself the first time, Marthe didn't in fact come to save her. Perhaps she's dying and dreaming all of this.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Personally I like it left open like that. There's a natural human tendency frantically to tie up these sorts of loose ends but a piece like this I think thrives on the not knowing. We don't know who she is, who he is, we only hear snippets of what has gone on between them for five years, and in the end, we can't really be certain what's happened, what she's done to him, who's dead. By my reckoning the body count as the curtain drops could be two, one or even zero.

Reviewers haven't been particularly fond of Rachel McDonald's take on La voix humaine, and when they say she complicates it excessively, I can see their point. Certainly the piece itself is strong enough to stand as is, and I have no doubt that Yvonne could make it just as exquisitely harrowing as simply abandoned and fragile, rather than abandoned, fragile and potentially murderous. I don't believe that McDonald makes the piece any better or more effective with her twists and turns - but I also don't think she does it any harm. The core of La voix humaine is not story, but psychology: it's not a ripping yarn, but rather a disconcerting window into a fractured psyche. If we realise that, and stop trying to assign single and definite meaning to the various layers of this production, then I think it starts to make sense in the way it ought.

I only have two (related) complaints. Because the sheet falls off the body at the end, just before 'She' takes her final fatal drink, and because the bed is on the other side of the stage, at the moment when all eyes should be trained on Yvonne, many are still trained on the mannequin in the bed. And because the ending is such a twist, people leave the theatre discussing that, when they should be discussing the incredible achievement by this gifted singing actress. Apart from that, however, I like this production a lot. I would also love to see a production without the extras. The only problem being, that the soprano who has introduced me to this wonderful opera - and I do love the opera itself now, not just the singer involved - has in that same moment spoilt me utterly for any other singer's version. That's an irrational sentiment, I know: it's also true.

Bruschino revisited

(A post about Opera Australia's Il Signor Bruschino which has taken longer to type than the opera itself actually runs....and knowing Rossini, probably longer than he took to compose the thing.)

In the last few months I've never considered Opera Australia's Il Signor Bruschino as anything but incidental to my second-act diva mania - but since I have now seen it four times I feel that perhaps I ought to have a few further observations to make. I rather hurried through my review of opening night, understandably enough; four performances later I'm at leisure to say a little more.

Apart from anything else, I must say that the very fact that I've actually made it through four night of this opera, without once being tempted to time my arrival for interval and skip the whole thing, speaks volumes. Especially given that it's Rossini. Now don't misunderstand me, I have great affection for Rossini. But he's so very recognizable that it can be quite easy for just enough to become too much. I feared that might happen here, and I'm happily surprised to find that it hasn't. It will be enough, quite enough, by Saturday night, when the show closes: I admit readily that I've probably had sufficient helpings of Il Signor Bruschino to last me for life - and then some - but though I'm full, there's no indigestion.

Much of the credit for that digestiblity has to be given to the talented line-up of singers. As far as I'm concerned poorly-sung Rossini would be worse than boringly-sung Rossini. None of the singing in this production is electrifying, but it is at least stylish. Kanen Breen's Florville doesn't possess a particularly colourful or interesting voice, but it's pleasant enough; best of all is that he seems to have an excellent grasp of bel canto style, which makes a real difference. It bothers me to hear a singer with apparently little or no idea of the era or style from which the opera has emerged: Mozart sung like Puccini, for instance, or vice versa. No such problem with Breen, and thus, though I'm not leaping out of my seat at the sound of his voice, I also find very little to criticise, because even the drawbacks of his sound are sufficiently compensated for by his sense of style. Not to mention, of course, his sense of humour. Every time I've seen this Bruschino, it has been Kanen Breen's antics on stage, his gorgeously melodramatic gestures and impeccable comic timing, which have made me glad to be back there again.

Every night the audience goes a little wild for Emma Matthews at her curtain call. I can understand this. She's adorable to watch, she has a sweetly crystalline voice which is perfect for Sofia, and she also gets in a decent number of chandelier-rattling high notes: always a crowd pleaser. Still, though, for me there is something lacking. I can see that she's doing a wonderful job, but her singing lacks conviction somehow: it's pretty, to be sure, but a little weightless. Every sound she makes is lovely, and so I'll applaud her for that, but personally I hear nothing in her performance to make me feel like stomping my feet: though others were doing just that.

There's only one other girl in the cast, and my loyalties lie with her. Roxane Hislop is woefully underutilised as Marianna, with just a duet and an ensemble or two. Obviously at nineteen Rossini hadn't yet hit upon the magnificent idea of having the mezzo as the star; here she's the maid, without even much manipulation of her master to sing about. But each time I've heard her I've liked her voice more and more. Despite the secondary role, she's an ideal Rossini mezzo, darkish and Mediterranean. From my Act I seat tonight she sounded the best she has yet, and I can only hope that if she stays around Opera Australia she won't be condemned to a string of minor roles.

It turns out, however, that the actual star of this opera is John Bolton Wood as Bruschino padre. I assumed the lovers were the centre of the story but no, it's Bruschino padre around whom everything revolves, even if for a long time he has no idea just what's going on. John Bolton Wood is also the star because he's head and shoulders above everyone else on stage in terms of talent. He's an old favourite among Melbourne audiences apparently, the senior member of the cast; he's absolutely in his element both vocally and dramatically in this role.

I mentioned Marianna already; the rest of the minor roles have been cast excellently too. My personal favourite is in fact the man with perhaps the shortest role of them all: the real Bruschino figlio (David Lewis), who stumbles onstage debauched and drunk, relieves himself in the garden,attempts to grope Marianna, tells his father he's 'pentito-tito-tito' then loses consciousness. He's a scream. He also, as it happens, seems to have a rather fabulous voice. It's hard to tell, he only has a few lines, and those are slurred and silly but still, there's something there I think, something which made me wonder - even though I adore Kanen Breen - what effect swapping the casting of Florville and Bruschino figlio might have had.

There are others who deserve my attention but I'm running out of steam rather. Richard Alexander's Gaudenzio is terribly good fun, a good foil to John Bolton Wood's Bruschino even if his vocalism isn't quite so freely-flowing as the latter's; Shane Lowrencev does an excellent job as Filiberto, and Tom Hamilton's police commissioner sings almost nothing but is fine all the same. But there's only so much virtual ink I can spill over tenors and baritones and I think I've about reached the limit. Really, the best thing about this Bruschino is the evenness of casting, vitally important in an opera which is so very much an ensemble piece. One performance would have been fine for me, I really had no burning desire to know this opera as well as I now do, but four (five on Saturday) is bearable and even quite enjoyable.

Troisième

Tonight, the third night. The best so far? I'd say so, if I could - I can't say so, because each night has been such unassailable joy.

To call her performance perfection seems an unjust oversimplification. Perfect is all well and good but it glosses over the ups and downs, the nuances, the thousand and one shades of loveliness contained within. A polished performance, certainly, but not beyond recognition. Always she has been a careful singer but always fearless too. Every moment is accurate, not a hair out of place, but still she flames out, thrilling, bright, with a seeming spontaneity which could make one forget that there was a composer at all, that this music and text existed before she animated them. The high C on 'madness' must, these days, represent something like the upper limit of her voice but there's not a hint of trepidation, she thrusts herself into it and the effect is quite extraordinary. It is a scream but it is not screamed. She is sweetness, she is all silk. The monologue is one of unremitting despair but there are moments, gone again in a flash, of lightness of heart and humour even. They disappear again, the contrasts just makes the desperation worse - but so captivating and magnetic is she that despite everything, while these moments laugh, I can't but smile. 'Can you just imagine me trying to buy a gun?' It's a comical picture, and for just a second she forgets everything bad, and we can too - and that's something. After all, anyone who could get through this opera could upset us with it, it's horrendous, that's not too difficult; actually to create moments of cheer within it is, I think, an exceptional achievement. It's a shattering piece for an audience, one can only imagine how much more shattering for the singer, but performed like this, with such vitality and such generosity, it is all the same life affirming somehow.

La seconde fois

Three wishes for La voix humaine:

1. Everyone should see this production twice at least. Once you know the ending they've given it, there's a whole new chilling layer to it.
2. Film it, now. It matters, it's magic, and in a week it will be gone.
3. Turn off the damned surtitles. People are reading them out of habit and they're missing out on all the details and the beauty below. Without them, everybody would cope, her diction is flawless. (While they're at it, they can get rid of the surtitles for Il Signor Bruschino too, I think we can do without the embarrasing translation of the libretto into 'idiomatic' English Australian.)

But apparently not everybody appreciates this wonder as I do. Overheard leaving the theatre tonight:

HER: Well I thought it was very dramatic.

HIM: Yes it was, but I wanted to hear her sing.

The ingratitude. You heard her sing. No, poverino, no 'O mio babbino caro', no 'Vilja-Lied' for you but you heard her sing. If you don't realise that, you don't deserve to have any wishes granted, let alone that one.

And on ingratitude...the theatre was quite frighteningly empty tonight. Most of the left hand side of the stalls unsold. How could anybody want to be anywhere else? But I, at least, am not ungrateful. I took advantage, I moved at interval, and so watched Yvonne tonight from Row D instead of Row R. Which among other things put me directly in line for that terrifying, beautifully bloodcurdling high C. Again, my gratitude knows no bounds.