Prima la musica, poi le parole

La sonnambula

When I missed the only possible train two weekends ago, I thought I'd blown my chances of seeing the Met's La sonnambula for good. But fate was in my favour for once, and a glitch in that session meant the broadcast was re-screened last weekend. It meant going to a different theatre and buying a second ticket, but so what? Natalie alone is worth far more than that, and besides, I was determined to see this production. Anything which generates as much controversy as Mary Zimmermann's production of La sonnambula did on its opening night has to have something going for it.

And so it does. I'm not about to defend this show from all the criticism it drew. A good deal of it was reasonably well founded, and those who outright hated are hardly likely to have their minds changed by a biased little creature like me. But personally, I loved it. Zimmermann's "let's set Opera X in a rehearsal of Opera X!" concept is not exactly new. Nor is it consistently logical. I don't care. I enjoyed this Sonnambula more than I thought I could enjoy a Sonnambula. It was beautiful, it was funny, it was wonderfully sung and acted, and for (almost) every questionable decision or nonsensical moment, there was one of beauty and insight. 

I even liked the finale, where the cast finally dons their ridiculously twee Swiss villager costumes and stages a cartoonishly traditional Sonnambula. I know this scene troubled even some of those who liked other aspects of the production. It's true it could (and perhaps should) be construed as deliberate mockery of those who might have expected — and preferred — a conventional Sonnambula. But for me — and it's true I was already predisposed to like it, just to be contrary — it felt like a fittingly joyful conclusion. All the anguish and heartbreak is out of the way, the personal backstage politics have been resolved and so this imaginary little opera company can get on with doing what it's there for — a nice production of La sonnambula — and Natalie's troubled Amina/soprano-singing-Amina can unite her personal and artistic happiness in a fun filled finale. Of course, my response might just have been influenced by the extreme adorability of Natalie in her Swiss dress and green shoes. (I want the green shoes.)

Oh, Natalie. There was a time when everything I read about Natalie was praise. To the point that I assumed she was being overhyped and was reluctant to listen to her. These days I'm the one praising her left, right and centre, while elsewhere I seem to read more criticism than anything else, not all of it fair. Well, fine, if that's how you feel, but it isn't how I feel. Her voice has changed a lot and a lot of people are not happy about that. I am. I love her, and I love her on her own terms. I don't even want to argue that her acting compensates for any occasional threadbare patches in her voice (although I think it does) because as far as I'm concerned, those patches don't require compensation. I love how she sounds. I just do. 

And so I adored her Amina. The chance to see Natalie play a variation on her own personality — and, more broadly, to see her play a really and truly modern character — is one of the best things about this production. Even if for nothing else, Zimmerman's concept was worth realising just for that. She was as captivating as she always is, in that way that only Natalie ever is. Amina is loved and adored by almost everyone who comes into contact with her, which is why they're so devastated when it seems like she might not be perfect after all. Natalie's performance — however you choose to understand the Zimmerman/Dessay concept of the character — makes that mass affection believable. She's not just the pretty village maiden. She's fascinating and hilarious and complex and a total sweetheart and...and...and...well, if I lived in her village, I'd be only too happy to put my dirndl on and sing a zippy chorus in her praise. 

Could she be just as enchanting in a traditional production? I'm sure she could. That's one of my favourite aspects of this production. For all its teasing post-modern nonsense, it's such a strong showcase for the talents of its principal cast that it makes a very convincing case for Sonnambula in any setting as an interesting opera (dramatically and musically) and not just dull organ-grinder fluff. I'm far more inclined now than I ever would have been before to engage with a straightforward Swiss village Sonnambula, because the sheer novelty of Zimmerman's modern conception allowed it to highlight the essential beauty and appeal of the opera without battling contempt-breeding familiarity to do so. And now I know. So I don't have to see every subsequent Sonnambula set in a Manhattan rehearsal room to keep appreciating it, but I'm very glad to have had the chance to see it like that and if this one comes out on DVD, I will buy it in a heartbeat.

Despite appearances, I have not forgotten Juan Diego. As if anybody could forget Juan Diego. I think I'd forgotten, since La fille du régiment, just how lovable he is, and then he descended that rehearsal room staircase, and I remembered. Of course, his Elvino is not the puppy-eyed boy Tonio was — he has a bit more bite to him — but he is still as irresistible as ever. I love the way he and Natalie work together. His way of singing is so different from hers, so much more in the strict bel canto tradition, scrupulous and meltingly legato, and his acting, too is a bit more straightforward, still dotted with a few of the old fashioned gestures of which Natalie has so thoroughly rid herself. And all of that is utterly in his favour. Two frenetic modernists together would be too scatty to take. But he has just enough golden age gloss to support her Thoroughly Modern Amina, and meanwhile her hyperrealism rubs off on his Elvino enough to keep him believable. I love them together, both as a pair of characters and as a sonic experience. 

And — this merits a new paragraph — good lord, how the boy can sing. I must confess that occasionally on disc, I find the edge in his voice a bit too much to take in large doses. But with the space and scope of live performance — even if relayed by satellite — I cannot get enough of that voice. Every little bit of it: the pianissimi, the runs upon runs upon runs, his gorgeous duetting, his depth of expression, all of it is very, very good. Not to mention that note. The one he holds forever, giving the entire chorus time to scuttle offstage before he finally releases it and falls to his knees, to show-stopping applause. 

It's hard at this point for whatever I add about the rest of the singers to sound anything other than tacked on, which is a shame, because they do deserve much better than that. I was especially mad about Michele Pertusi as the Count, so wonderfully suave and charismatic. Every day I become more of a baritone fanatic, and singers like Pertusi are the reason why. Jennifer Black is a bit of a revelation as Lisa: what a treat (for her and for us) to see this character given so much personality and implied personal history. For all her sharp asides, you can't dismiss her offhand as a bitch: she's too three dimensional for that, and she charts a real psychological development, so that her eventual volte-face actually makes sense. I'd read here and there beforehand about the scene on the windowsill and it was just as lovely a moment as I'd imagined. Jane Bunnell was just the right kind of matronly, bossiness and benevolence balanced nicely. The chorus, too, does a pretty fabulous job — it must be a nice change for them to have a chance to play real individuals (and perhaps themselves) rather than a faceless mob. One quibble: why did everyone show up to the second day of rehearsals in exactly the same outfits they'd worn the previous day? Hah. As if I should be looking for logic in this show. 

There are people who will tell you that this production was a travesty, a disaster, an abomination. And some of those people will tell you that it makes a mockery of La sonnambula itself, that it destroys the Beautiful Soul of a Bel Canto Gem, or words to that effect. Well, I don't know. Maybe it does. But in my case, it made me appreciate the opera more, not less. Yes, I laughed at it a bit, but it was with affection. I ended up with my opinion of this opera genuinely improved: and whether you think that's because of Zimmerman's ideas or despite them, it seems to me like an undeniably happy ending. 

Oh. One final note. My heartfelt congratulations to Barbara Willis Sweete, for finally managing to film one of these broadcasts properly. Seems she's finally figured it out. 

Es ist kein Laut zu vernehmen

The Met HD cinema transmissions are back. Is it just me, or this year's line-up a little less madly exciting than the last? Or perhaps the novelty has just worn off. Last year, I took a bus all the way to Paddington just to buy my season ticket; this year I think I might pick and choose, although the siren song of Renée's fabulous hosting skills may prove hard to resist. Likewise the high camp prospect of her Thaïs. La Sonnambula with Natalie is essential, obviously: I might have preferred a different opera, but Natalie is Natalie is Natalie. But I can't muster huge enthusiasm for Anna's Lucia, much as I like her; and while I'm nuts about Madama Butterfly, nothing I've read, seen or heard of Cristina Gallardo-Domas suggests we're in for much of a treat — although I am curious to see Anthony Minghella's production. La Cenerentola will be fun, though. I like Elina Garanca (although I'd be even more excited by Glorious Joyce in the role) but more importantly, Clorinda will be sung by Our Own Rachelle Durkin.

But all that's in the future. First things first: we had Salome this weekend. I switched cinematic allegiances and saw it at the Cremorne Orpheum instead of the Chauvel. And if you saw it too, at any other theatre in the world, I'm willing to bet that My Salome Was More Surreal Than Your Salome. Because my Salome, screened in a genuine art deco theatre, was preceded by a medley of hits from My Fair Lady, played on the Mighty Wurlitzer organ by a man in a lounge suit who rose from a trap door below the stage. I kid you not. This seems to be a tradition at the Orpheum. Serving as introduction to dark'n'decadent R. Strauss it was wonderfully bizarre.

And then there was Karita. Let's not dwell too much on the rest. The production seems pretty ugly and ineffectual, but it's hard to say with certainty since it was so poorly filmed. Barbara Willis Sweete should be banned from these broadcasts. I've enjoyed two of her operatic films: The Sorceress and Don Giovanni Unmasked. But these films had the express intent of removing opera from the atmosphere of a live theatre, and unfortunately, faced with live opera, Willis Sweete's direction continues to produce much the same effect. I've said it before and I'll say it again: creativity in these broadcasts is admirable, but the overarching aim is surely faithfully to recreate the in-the-flesh experience of opera at the Met. Willis Sweete seems determined to destroy that atmosphere completely. It's some little comfort, I suppose, that she didn't subject us to the maddening split screens of Tristan und Isolde; but nevertheless, this was poorly thought out, distracting and obstructive filming. Maybe it isn't a great production but filmed like this, who would know?

Anyway, Karita. Beautiful and scintillating and seriously disturbing. The production and filming could be a million times worse, and it would still be a major triumph for Karita. She owns it, plain and simple. She was horrifying and wonderful. Wonderfully horrifying. Horrifyingly wonderful. Sometimes her voice was drop dead gorgeous. Sometimes it drop dead wasn't. Either way, it was magnificent. The fearlessness of her portrayal, vocally and physically, is quite something. Surely very few sopranos could — or would — tackle the role with such raw, passionate energy. That all this was prefaced by Karita striding out of her dressing room and throwing a swift "let's kick ass" over her shoulder at hostess Debbie Voigt (whom I love, but the poor thing was left rather adrift with the adlibbing) just added to the splendour.

The phenomenon of Karita (and centrality of Salome) more or less removes the need for anybody else in the opera to be more than good enough, which is lucky, since good enough is pretty much as far as they go. I did like Ildiko Komlosi's Herodias, although she didn't always make a lot of sense. Kim Begley's Herod just isn't nearly lecherous enough: if you didn't know what his words meant, you'd probably think he was just a benign oaf. Herod needs to be slimy. Juha Uusitalo certainly looks imposing (he looks like a Viking) but ultimately I was a bit underwhelmed: he boomed away, but it was hard to see why Salome should go so mad for him. 

And, as warned, they cut away at the crucial moment of the Dance of the Seven Veils. How ridiculous. It's absurd to talk about being "family friendly" — it's Salome, for heaven's sake: mere physical nudity is the least of your worries. If your child can cope with everything else that's going on — far more disturbing stuff — then I doubt a brief shot of a naked Karita is going to phase them. Besides, I think kids these days must be pretty hardy. I mean, Cheryl Barker's young son was at opening night of The Makropulos Secret, in which his mother, among other things, put her hand into John's Pringle's trousers and twisted. I have to say, even as an adult, I think that would traumatise me, but on the other hand, it's all part of a well-rounded and colourful cultural upbringing. And if you're bringing a kid to Salome, shielding them from a bit of non-gratuitous nudity seems futile and self-contradictory to me. Not to mention clumsy, in the hands of Ms Willis Sweete.

Nothing could bring this Salome down though. It's all about Karita, and Karita is stunning. The sight of her taking her curtain calls, face smeared with blood, is one I'll remember for a while.

Salut à la France

In ten days I've experienced Laurent Pelly's La fille du régiment four times in three different media. Has repetition eroded its charm? Not an ounce. I am, however, thanking my lucky stars I didn't drop French in Year 9 — I did consider it briefly — and instead continued my studies for another eight years. This Fille delights in any language, but speaking French, to paraphrase Natalie herself, HELPS a LOT. I've rarely been more grateful to all my French teachers than when Natalie embarked on her muttered, improvised monologue in Act One. Her delivery and her talent for comedy make it funny even if you can't catch a single word, but understanding (most of) what she's saying makes it even better. Forget the literature, the scholarship, the cultural awareness, the scope for diplomacy/international espionage/world domination; Natalie Dessay's sotto voce ramblings are the real advantage of bilingualism. Just as Juan Diego Florez's legato is the real advantage of possessing a working pair of ears.

Where in the world would you find a more congenial, charismatic pair than these two? In their rushed interview with Renée, Natalie mentioned how different they are from one another, even though "on stage, we are the same". I think she's right. My impression is that Juan Diego is a born musician who just happens to be an incredibly engaging actor, while Natalie is a born actress who just happens to have a drop dead gorgeous voice and all the facility for coloratura a girl could want. That affects their preparation and their approach to performance. But however their routes differ, what we see is the common destination — two performers who are the complete package, who make opera both what it should be and what it already, gloriously, is. 

When Renée said to Natalie, "I always think our goal is to make people forget that we're singing", I confess it rang a little false. I'm not sure that, deep down, that really truly is what Renée's most cherished goal is. Certainly when I listen to Renée — whether I'm in an affectionate mood or not — the one impression I always have is of being constantly reminded of the fact that she most definitely is singing. And that's okay; you can love Renée, or you can not, or you can waver, but I personally feel increasingly disinclined to criticise her for being herself. But presumably she said that not because in her heart of hearts she feels it, but because Natalie has being saying it all over the place for a while now, and it was guaranteed one of Natalie's characteristic exclamations in response.

Natalie, as I've said, is ideal propaganda for this revolution for which she's calling — the treatment of opera as theate above all else, a campaign for singers whose acting is genuine, not token or non existent, a movement away from the absolute primacy of beautiful sound. Her argument, in its essence, has been around much longer than she has, of course. The same ideas are the basis, for instance, of a lot of Maria Callas worship. My concern with those ideas as they concern Maria has always been the potential for "great singing needn't be beautiful" to become "great singing cannot be beautiful" — a tendency to dismiss all prettiness as by definition empty. Natalie counters this tendency brilliantly. She is uncompromising, never sacrificing expressive truth in favour of a lovely sound; but the fundamental sound of her voice makes actual ugliness basically impossible. She's proof that while great singing needn't be sonically ravishing, it can be. And she does it as a coloratura soprano, the fach which, with all its acrobatics and raising-upon-pedestals of gorgeous voices, is probably more responsible than any other for the idea that "pretty=pointless". In roles which might seem custom built for sopranos who wish to avoid acting, Natalie is here to change minds, turn heads and stop a heart or three.

Is she the only soldier in her revolutionary war? Of course she isn't. For the moment, though, she is her army's perfect figurehead. She's one who can appear on talkshows and magazine covers, flying the flag.

For what it's worth, I'm not entirely on her side. I agree with most of her principles. I don't, however, believe that her way is the only way. Opera for me is a musical genre which relies on theatre, not a theatrical genre which relies on music; thus I tend to value sincerity, commitment and scrupulous musicality even higher than "natural" acting ability. If you can bring a score to life through your voice, it doesn't bother me if you're a bit stiff or silly on stage. To be bleedingly obvious — take Joan Sutherland. She is denigrated all over the place for her lack of acting skills, but she has never struck me as a poor actress — she brings a role to exciting and musically exquisite life, so what more do you need? Maybe she doesn't move gracefully, but there's a vast difference between that sort of "poor acting" and an immobile, mechanical singer with no soul or sense of what she's singing. Joan is not the latter; at least she has never seemed so to me. Besides, she is an extreme example. For the most part it seems to me that utter commitment to, and genuine understanding of, the music they are singing tends to draw, at the very least, a reasonable sense of theatre from most singers. I don't necessarily see Rachelle Durkin storming the West End as Hedda Gabler, but she threw herself into Alcina, and in that context her acting was for the most part as striking as her singing.

I'm not sure that Juan Diego wants in on the revolution either. He is a different kind of poster boy, an advertisement not for radical change but rather for the best conceivable realisation of the status quo, or even of the golden past. He acknowledges and celebrates the tradition in which he follows, paying tribute both implicit and explicit to his predecessors. Maybe he doesn't operate on the theatrical edge as Natalie does — then again, I've only ever seen him in comedy, so perhaps he does — but he's convincing (and ridiculously appealing) just the same. Sometimes he slips into stock gestures but the openhearted sincerity of his performances mean that, in Juan Diego's hands, they aren't stock gestures any more — just the natural, spontaneous physical extension of the emotions his singing is expressing.

And because Juan Diego is a true bel canto tenor — and a great one — he also commits himself to the production of beautiful sounds. Beautiful, and once again, anything but empty. As with Natalie, dissimilar though they may be, neither beauty nor persuasive expression need be sacrificed in each other's interests, both are fundamental to the way Juan Diego sings.  They arrive there by different means, driven by different motivations, but both achieve the same outcome — both do absolute justice to the music and to the art form. In La fille du régiment, Laurent Pelly's direction provides ample scope for his singers to bring both the musical joys and the theatrical possibilities of Donizetti's opera to resplendent life. Everyone has the chance to do exactly what he or she does best and the result is bliss.

Fille in HD

I haven't died or quit. I've been in Melbourne. Seeing, as it happens, a sixth and final performance of Arabella. About which more soonish, but for the moment I have a head full of Natalie.

This afternoon was the final in the series of Met in HD moviecasts, the one I was waiting for right from the start, the one which caused me to actually jump for joy when I read that it was coming — La fille du régiment with Natalie and Juan Diego. For all intents and purposes, my favourite soprano and my favourite tenor, and both of them jawdroppingly in their element. It was worth all the anticipation and about 99% of all the advance hype.

My only real difficulty was choosing with whom I should fall deepest in love. Natalie is outrageous and brilliant, a manic little powerhouse full of extraordinary talent and perfect comic timing. Juan Diego is preposterously adorable, just as charismatic as she is and gifted beyond all imagining. I was perhaps even more enchanted by him than by her — can you believe it? — simply because while my ecstatic response to the wonder of Natalie is pretty much a given, my experience of Juan Diego hasn't been quite so extensive. It never surprises me that Natalie is a knock out, it's what I expect; Juan Diego still has a few breathtaking thrills up his sleeve where I'm concerned. Naturally everyone went nuts for his "Pour mon âme" but it was his "Pour me rapprocher de Marie" which knocked me sideways, with the kind of legato likely to leave one in a puddle on the floor — and an interpolated D-flat to boot. We were told it was coming in the intermission interview:

Renée: Oh, I didn't know [there was a D-flat in that aria]!
JDF: Oh, of course is not written, but I put it.

Of course he does. And so he should.

What can I say about Natalie except that she's Natalie? Everything has been said, either by me or by the whole world. She's so fantastic it hurts. She throws her voice all over the place in the dialogue, only to shine and sparkle her way through her arias and ensembles. Her oddball Marie is the stuff of genius, and only she could pull it off so perfectly. Natalie wants a revolution in opera as theatre; whether you're joining her army or not, you have to admire the woman for at every moment practising what she preaches — she is the ideal poster girl for her own campaign. Her expressivity is astounding; she looks crestfallen, you feel it; she grins and it's utterly infectious. Having established herself as my favourite soprano, Natalie becomes one of my favourite actresses too.

This Fille could probably manage to be quite satisfactory if it was nothing beyond a vehicle for its two stars. But there's so much more. So much more. Laurent Pelly's production is playful and clever and I love it, from the war map sets to Marie's gravity defying ponytail to the inspired hilarity of Tonio's triumphant Act II entrance on a tank. And I love the detail of it — the potato Marie takes in Act I as a souvenir of the regiment, for instance, returns in Act II — but green, and growing roots. Pelly has created genuine comedy, the kind that doesn't force itself upon you but simply rolls along in its brilliant way and happens to be hilarious.

Felicity Palmer is just completely wonderful as the Marquise de Birkenfield, apparently relishing every moment of the role. Alessandro Corbelli's Sulpice looks to have stepped straight out of a propaganda poster; he's initially a bit grotesque, but that fades pretty quickly and by the end he's hard not to like, in a silly, rotund sort of a way. Donald Maxwell is a gorgeously haughty Hortensius. I adored them all. What joy to have a comic opera peopled entirely by such funny, funny performers who, almost incidentally, all sound great too. Marian Seldes has an appalling French accent but makes a suitably terrifying Duchesse de Krakenthorp.

This, like the Glyndebourne Giulio Cesare or the Arts Florissants Les Indes Galantes, is one of those productions which so bursting with wonderful stuff that I'm dying to share as much of it as I can — and yet I know, of course, that all the magic would lose its glitter in the telling. There's no describing such things; they need to be seen. So thank god/Peter Gelb for the HD broadcasts; otherwise we'd never have had the chance.

La bohème, or, The Strange Fascination of Angela Gheorghiu

For whatever reason, La bohème and I have just never got on. I know the rest of the world loves it madly, and believe me, I have tried but it is no use. From "Sono andati" to the end is fantastic, the rest leaves me cold or at best lukewarm. Go ahead and judge me, but I can't do anything about it. It does become a bit more tempting with one of my special favourites singing in it, I admit. Aldo di Toro as Rodolfo, Mirella Freni, Cheryl Barker or Antoinette Halloran as Mimi — I can't deny these are attractive prospects, but even they can't make me adore the opera as a whole. I'm sorry.

And this weekend's HD broadcast didn't even offer such a lure. My relationship with Angela Gheorghiu has never been a very happy one. Her singing has never moved or amazed me, and her antics and interviews don't exactly cast her in a very appealing light. Just as with La bohème itself, thousands adore her and for me it just isn't a happening thing.

Until today. Sort of. There was something strangely compelling and attractive about her Mimi. Strangely is the operative word. Hers was an unusual Mimi; maybe not a Mimi at all. She made vague mention of Murget during her intermission interview as her precedent for a less than pure and innocent portrayal of Mimi — that's as may be, but I suspect her characterisation was less about fidelity to the source and more about Angela doing what she was in the mood for. And yet, this is all a bit beside the point. I found her fascinating and really quite lovely. I felt myself falling under her spell, in fact.

But I also felt that I could see her casting that spell. She's a good actress but there's no way she's going to get lost in a character — Angela is first and foremost Angela, and that means a diva in the old fashioned and grandest sense. I think she knows exactly what she's doing — every turn of phrase, every vocal climax, every delicate, pathos filled gesture and adorable smile, it's all of it calculated to make her audience adore her. Somehow, though, seeing all this happen doesn't do much to lessen its effect. I knew I was being manipulated, but it still worked — in an odd way, seeing the mechanism of diva at work just added to its potency.

So the upshot of all this contradiction is that almost despite myself, I loved every minute of Angela's Mimi. She was downright strange, but mesmerising, and her voice, which has never moved me before, suddenly seemed the most gorgeous, fascinating sound this performance had to offer. But it was her performance I loved. The rest was harder to be bewitched by. Her interview with Renée Fleming was bizarre — like watching Betty interview Veronica. She seemed determined to show how much she adored Renée and to be as flamboyant and quirky as possible but it was all a bit undignified and insincere. She returned from her between-act curtain calls and every time played up for the camera, but it seemed a studied attempt to be adorable, a conscious imitation of the faces Anna Netrebko made for the camera, perhaps.  The most telling moment came as the cast prepared for their final curtain call. Ainhoa Arteta stood there actually crying, wiping away tears and obviously trying to gather herself together. Angela breezed past, humming merrily to herself. Ainhoa was emerging from real, sincere immersion in the emotion of the piece; Angela was emerging from a gala night of Being Angela.

The intangible magnetism she possesses does at times overshadow the rest of the cast. I felt this especially in Ainhoa Arteta's "Quando m'en vo" — as vivid as she was, somehow when Mimi joined in at the end, she took over. It almost seemed as if Puccini had written it that way simply because Angela had sent him a message from the future asking him not to let her thunder be stolen outright by such a showy aria. Ramon Vargas seems like a sweetheart and made quite an attractive Rodolfo but was not overwhelming. Ainhoa Arteta made a singularly unlikeable Act Two Musetta but was completely endearing in Act Four, and her vibrant and shiny voice is certainly the kind of voice I like. The rest of Rodolfo's bohemian circle were all very good and plenty of fun, though I couldn't ever shake the impression of a bunch of healthy, well-fed middle aged men who ought to have been living sensible, grown up lives, not huddling in a dingy Parisian flat and acting like teenagers. I'm sorry to use descriptions like "very good" and leave it at that — perhaps they deserve better — but I'm afraid I just can't get ravingly excited. It's La bohème. There it is.

The intermission feature was the same old thing. I adored Renée as always — she's without a doubt the hostess with the mostess. As always, I got teary at the sight of Natalie in the trailer for La fille du régiment. I liked that Joe Clark the technical director was wearing a tie which matched one of the Act Two canopies. I fell momentarily in love with Tatiana Troyanos during her brief appearance in the Zeffirelli montage. And of course, the quotable line of the night came from Maestro (and cartoon Italian) Nicola Luisotti during his chat with Hostess Renée.

Renée: This orchestra could play this opera in its sleep. How do you keep things fresh?
Luisotti: I sleep with them.

Tristan und Isolde

Alright, I will deal with the bad things first and in doing so, rid myself of them.

1. Try again, Barbara Willis Sweete. I occasionally saw your point with the split screens. But save them for DVD. They ruin a live broadcast. I may be mistaken, but it's my impression that the appeal of these broadcasts for most people is that they give some sense of what's it's like to attend an opera at the Met. Fifty million little boxes don't achieve that. Quite the opposite. She said something to Peter Gelb about allowing the audience to choose what to see, but in fact, her direction gives us less choice — we have her vision imposed upon us instead. She also said something about offering "relief" from a "static" production. Excuse me? How dare you? Plenty of people have managed to film plenty of similarly "static" operas without resorting to all this ridiculousness. I took to closing my eyes as soon as the frame started shrinking, which worked relatively well but I still resent being obliged to shut my eyes to Debbie. Others were angrier even than I was; I witnessed quite a heated discussion among five women waiting for the loos, all of whom hated in the direction to varying degrees.

2. To the man beside me who started picking, pontificating and finding fault less than a second after the music had ended — have you no soul? It's Tristan und Isolde, for god's sake; is that seriously your immediate response? Also, nobody asked you to interject loudly during Susan Graham's conversation with Sarah Billinghurst. It's a moviecast, not a town hall meeting. Also, if you're going to ridicule Natalie Dessay, at least get her surname right.

3. I bought one of the Chauvel's famous ice cream sandwiches. When I opened the packet, it went flying, rolled under five rows of seats and ended up at the front of the theatre, coated with fluff and dust and totally inedible. This made for exactly the combination of tragedy and comedy you'd expect. I wasn't about to buy a second.

Spleen vented.

The all-encompassing good thing is, of course, Tristan und Isolde itself. And I am in my usual Wagner predicament — the kind of elated rambling I lavish upon everything else seems irrelevant and inappropriate in the face of this sort of music. Experiencing Wagner isn't like experiencing opera, it's a trip to another world. My usual concerns disappear and I'm transported and transfixed. I'm sure I've said these things before, but that's inevitable. My encounters with Wagner are infrequent but as a rule transcendent. And this was Tristan und Isolde, for heaven's sake. My very first Tristan und Isolde ever. Imagine that. As always with Wagner, I just wish it was longer and that there weren't intervals. Although really, I'm not sure Wagner and time have much of a relationship. Objectively the operas are long, but to me it always seems that they just take as long as they need to in order to be what they are, which is perfect. Neither fast nor slow paced, just Wagner paced. I really don't know if this makes sense. Wagner does not make me make sense.

I love Deborah Voigt for various reasons but still didn't know quite what to expect from her Isolde. She was beautiful. No, maybe there isn't quite so much billowingly silky voice to get lost in now, but I don't care. And never having seen her in action before, I was surprised by her grace and simple, believable stage presence. At the end of the Liebestod I would have preferred the theatre to stay dark and silent for a good five or ten minutes, to let me have a bit of a cry and gather myself back together.

As for, in the words of Gilligan's Island, "the rest" — Robert Dean Smith sang a good Tristan, and that in itself is no mean feat. He was really quite jawdropping in the last act. I would have liked to have seen Ben Heppner or Gary Lehman, but no matter. Matti Salminen was amazing as King Marke. Michelle de Young was a pretty wonderful Brangaene. Oh, look, I don't have a word to say against any of the cast, that's so not the point.

Susan Graham lacks the slightly mad adorability of Renée Fleming as intermission host, but still did a pretty charming job of it. The interview with Debbie was the best; Debbie is a very funny woman, as I already knew.

Despite the split screens, I would almost go back for a second helping. Debbie's Liebestod would be reason enough. But the encore screening is, of necessity, on a weekday morning, so out of the question. Anyway, I've finally had my first Tristan. More, I suppose, will have to follow.

Natalie in HD (also Peter Grimes)

Peter Grimes in a moment. I need to talk about Natalie first. When Renée Fleming hosts the Met in HD intermission segment, I become a swooning Renée fan. So try to imagine my state upon seeing Natalie Dessay — my Natalie — in the same role. At least I knew in advance that she was hosting; had I not, my joy may well have been audibly uncontainable. Instead, I just did what I usually do when I see Natalie. I sat enraptured and burst into silent tears. It's almost become more a physical reflex than a precise emotional response — Natalie appears and I well up immediately. I really do love that woman. She is hilarious, more than slightly insane, completely adorable and phenomenally, breathtakingly talented. It's the last of these qualities which make the rest so meaningful.

And it was a slightly strange experience to share her with a crowd. I felt curiously possessive as I heard the rest of the theatre fall laughingly in love with her. I thought, what do you all know? She's my Natalie. And I wanted to say, yes, she's very French and funny and a little bit scatty here, but do you all realise that she's also one of the most fiercely intelligent singers of her generation? Do you realise she is not only sweet and charming, but also just terribly important? That when John Doyle talks about the importance of singers who can act, and says "you know that more than anyone", he doesn't just mean "you, as a present day opera singer", he means "you, as Natalie Dessay, a defining figure in opera as theatre"? Some of them probably do realise all of this. Some, I suspect, do not. And I don't know what to wish — all at once, I want everyone to know the fullness of her fabulousness and I want to keep her all for myself. And neither is practical or possible.

Everybody's favourite Natalie moment — it was mine too — was her repeated attempts at pronouncing "Aldeburgh". Followed immediately by a Very BBC presenter from BBC East who immediately pronounced it properly. She also asked Donald Palumbo if he beats the chorus. And there was this pearl for Maestro Runnicles. "You are from Scotland! Donald is from Scotland! Benjamin Britten is from England! Do you feel a special connection to his music because of this?" Asked by Renée, it would probably seem quite a normal question, but the wonderful strangeness of Natalie gives it an air of amusing silliness. We also loved her Tales From the Crypt introductions of "the horrible story...of...Peter Grimes"; the second of these actually earnt her a brief ovation.

And in between Natalie's hosting duties, there was an opera. It's rather unfair of me to introduce it like that, because in fact, Peter Grimes was kind of stunning. I love Benjamin Britten quite madly and yet our acquaintance is still rather limited. But everything I get to know strengthens my affection, and Peter Grimes is no exception. The depth and multicoloured darkness of it, the evocative orchestral textures and Britten's ever perceptive and gorgeous writing for the voice — all this fascinates and enchants me. There is something about Britten which just naturally agrees with me. I'd not heard Peter Grimes before but I certainly plan to hear it again. Sadly, as this is the only one of the HD broadcasts not to sell out, it's also the only one not getting an encore screening. It's also the only one I've felt inclined to see a second time.

Britten deserves first credit for my immediate attraction to this opera. Next, Donald Runnicles who brought it to such excruciatingly exquisite and occasionally brutal life. And then the wonderful Anthony Dean Griffey. I know him from his Mitch on the DG recording of A Streetcar Named Desire. His Grimes has that same careful combination of tremendous power and lyrical fragility, with the added bonus of having first rate music to sing. He clearly has got to the heart of this character, loves him even, though he's not the easiest man to love. He told Natalie that he felt he'd spent his entire life preparing for the role, and it shows. He was, in a way, quite beautiful.

I'm also happy finally to have had a chance to see Patricia Racette in action. All I've had to go on previously were a couple of Met radio broadcasts, but this was a far better showcase. She's serenely lovely here and in radiant voice. Her Embroidery Aria had rather more brilliance and clarity than Renée's, the only other rendition I've ever heard. She's magic in the scene with the boy as well. (And I have to say, I'm so pleased Britten let this boy be a mute role.) Of course, I also loved it when she and Jill Grove, finding they had walked into shot behind Natalie's interview, promptly linked arms and strode through like a couple of characters from Little Women. Speaking of Jill Grove — another happy revelation! I've only previously heard Jill as Tisbe on the DVD of Cenerentola with Cecilia. Much more to sing here and a far more interesting role, and she's rather wonderful. Yes, it's a rather broad American accent to hear from the landlady in an English seaside village, but no matter.

Naturally there were a few little cheers and, come curtain call, a special round of applause, for Teddy Tahu Rhodes. These Australians seem to imagine he's theirs. It was a nice change to see him with plenty of clothes on, and to hear him singing something other than Stanley — eight Streetcars had me feeling I'd heard enough Teddy to last a lifetime, but he really does make some pretty fantastic sounds as Ned Keene. I honestly can't tell if he can act or not, but there's something innately appealing about him, and I'm not talking about the pin-up stuff. He's likeable. His voice is a little unusual, not for all tastes or all moods, but it was quite resplendent here. But I'm wondering whether he's much of an accent person; Ned Keene sometimes sounded rather like Stanley, and yet not American — so perhaps his Stanley wasn't particularly Southern. I thought he was at the time, but then, my attention was mostly elsewhere.

John Doyle's production has received a fair bit of ambivalent and downright negative comment. I actually liked it a lot, it seems a good match to the atmosphere of the score. Dark, menacing, oppressive. I don't mind the chorus just being lined up across the stage, to stand and sing at the audience; it highlights the implicit attacks they're making, and maybe reflects the way the villagers exist in Grimes' psyche. I am, however, very glad indeed that the so-called "Wall of LGBT Role Models" was deleted early on from the finale. Actually it might have been weirdly interesting to see, but I just cannot fathom how anybody could possibly have thought it should be included in the first place. I thought it sounded absurd when I read about it; now that I've actually seen the production, the thought of it is bewildering — it would be a strange idea in any production, but here it would seem a completely incongruous concept, since nothing preceding it seems to emerge from the same interpretive angle. At least, I didn't think it did; this seemed to me, symbolic set design aside, a pretty non-interventionist production, happy to keep the opera ambiguous, open simultaneously to multiple interpretations without choosing one point in particular to hammer. So suddenly making that point at the end seems bizarre to me; thank god they (whoever "they" might be in this case) thought better of it.

Next up is Tristan & Isolde. I had considered booking for two (or even three!) screenings of this, just for the pleasurable pain of it — well, that and so that I could say that I had. However, having read of Barbara Willis Sweete's crimes against camerawork in her filming of it, I'm resisting. Six split screens? I hate to think. So even though it's Wagner, and even though it's Debbie, I think once will be enough.

Manon Lescaut

First things first — this post made possible by the wonderful Erin of the Chauvel Cinema in Paddington, who remembered me buying my season pass and so let me into Manon Lescaut without a ticket.

There are other roles I would rather see and hear her in, but Karita Mattila as Manon Lescaut is still, well, Karita Mattila. It is perhaps a slightly funny voice for the part but so what? She's so riveting to watch, so glorious to hear, such a singular sensory experience that she could be singing anything, and I'd be captivated. After all, this the woman who ended her 40th birthday recital with "Summertime" accompanied by electric guitar. She's endearingly nuts. Her interview with Renée, already posted chez Parterre, is barely coherent but hilarious. I'm impressed by anybody who can do the splits, let alone somebody who does the splits while being Karita Mattila. She starts stretching and making faces and flopping about before the final act, then suddenly realises "oh god, you're filming!" And then the curtain goes up and the music starts and she's totally riveting, a genuine singing actress. This is greatness, I think. Surrounded by a cast of good solid voices giving conventionally operatic kinds of portrayals, she's a gorgeous sliver of real life, of nervous, human energy. There are moments when it's like watching a Janacek heroine trapped in a Puccini opera, but why would I complain about that? Janacek, or the suggestion of Janacek, is always a good thing. Karita a little out of her element is exciting enough; now I'm ready to be blown away by Karita totally in her element — some Wagner, Strauss or Janacek please, Met in HD.

Meanwhile, there are other people in it. Marcello Giordani seems a bit of a sweetheart, both onstage and off. After a few of the things I've been hearing locally recently, it is a relief and a joy to hear a nice, strong, well supported tenor voice. Dwayne Croft is one of those names I've always seen about, and somebody who showed up on various Met radio broadcasts; but I'd never seen him in action and was surprised by how (for lack of a better word) interesting he is. I had the impression of a useful, reliable but not necessarily distinctive singer, but I was really rather drawn to him, and the superiority of cinema speakers to my tinny radio showed him to far better vocal advantage than usual.

As always, I spent the intermissions inwardly declaring my undying love for the gorgeous and wonderful Renée Fleming. There is something particularly appealing about having the stars of the performance interviewed by a singer who is every bit as much a star as they are — in some cases, more so. There is no fawning, there are no silly, poorly-informed questions. Best of all was her conversation with Jimmy, who finished answering her first question and said "My, you look so beautiful tonight". As in love with her as I am. Both he and Giordani couldn't help but note that they were talking about Puccini's Manon with a magnificent Massenet Manon.

It occurs to me that the remainder of the cinema broadcast series is a parade of Sopranos I Love — Patricia Racette, Deborah Voigt, and somebody called Natalie Dessay. The only spanner in the works is Angela Gheorghiu in La bohème, but since these broadcasts seem always to result in my declaring my love for somebody, perhaps this will prove to be my conversion.

L'opera scozzese

I don't have quite the deep, dark and meaningful relationship with Shakespeare enjoyed by some students of English literature. There are a few plays I adore, however. Macbeth is one of them. Just thinking of the witches' prophecy gives me goosebumps; and the image of the moving forest is more vivid on the page than even Polanski could make it. Now, I understand that nine times out of ten, in a fight with an Italian librettist who isn't Boito, Shakespeare will emerge the loser. So that's fine; I accept whatever damage was done back then. I'm not so happy about the damage Adrian Noble has done, despite 1. a background in straight, non-musical Shakespeare and 2. a surname which ought to know better. Perhaps with more than just five minutes with Mary Beth, or Mary Jo, or whoever the interval-woman-who-isn't-Renée is, he could have made a better case for himself. Or perhaps not. Anyway, all the moments which I expected to be super-creepy and goosebump-inducing weren't, and I wasn't best pleased. Dressing the chorus of witches like soiled housewives could have worked, but actually they just looked like the Batley Townswomen's Guild. I didn't want to see little girls vomiting in HD. Does it really take a jeep and some ammo belts to spell out: we still have wars and refugees and mad, bloodthirsty heads of state? Isn't it scarier to set them in the wayback past and let your audience figure out for themselves that, hang on, that's still going on...

Never mind. I have been gently savaging Francesca Zambello elsewhere, so perhaps I'm just in the mood for attacking the direction. When really, as ever, it's all about the singing.

Or at least, all about whatever it is that Maria Guleghina does. Which is mostly, but possibly not always, singing. I like her. She's scary. As soon as she started reading the letter, it was clear this was not a woman to disobey, or annoy with your excess of the milk of human kindness. I'm still attached to Grace's reading, especially her bloodthirsty "capo mio" but there's room for others. Maury has already said pretty much exactly what I'd like to say about Maria's singing and, well, everything else too (Fantine — yes!). I liked Željko Lučić quite a lot; I was especially grateful to him for Not Being Thomas Hampson. Look, I know Thomas sings the role beautifully, I've heard him do so; but the thought of watching him on a movie screen for three hours? No thank you. John Relyea did a better line in broody, interesting baritone as Banquo, though, and made a great (though ineffectually filmed) ghost. And Dimitri Pittas impressed me as Macduff, not just the voice but the perfectly timed tear as he finished reading about his newly-murdered family and the cameras moved in.

Speaking of camera-acting (unintentional or otherwise) — there seemed to a point in (I think) the sleepwalking scene when La Guleghina raged directly at the camera. Which was a slightly odd experience, not something you'd ever get in the theatre (or in your average movie, for that matter) — direct eye contact from the madwoman. That sleepwalking scene, by the way, was one of the downright strangest things I've ever heard. She said in her intermission interview that it was "scene really for actress" but, you know, even so, you ought to sing some of it in a normal, Verdian kind of way. Even just a little bit. Lady Macbeth's arias are the only parts of the opera I'm at all properly familiar with, thanks to Grace Bumbry; courtesy of her, I recognised "Vieni, t'affretta!" and "La luce langue" but the sleepwalking scene really bore no resemblance. Incidentally, I couldn't resist listening to Gracie's renditions immediately afterwards (she's on my iPod at the moment) and, well, you're alright, Maria, but Grace wins. Hands down.

I could mention the intermission feature. No Renée! I was heartbroken. Peter Gelb lui stesso spoke to il maestro shortly before the curtain went up, an interview nicely summarised here. I was amazed that HMS Gulegina and her Macbeth were willing to be interviewed more or less immediately after coming offstage — what a moment to be required to explain yourself in an unfamiliar language. Maria is as frightening offstage as on, really, just in a slightly more jocular (and less homicidal) way. But mostly I just missed Renée.

(Oh, and I had a little bloggish rush of pride upon hearing (though sadly not seeing) lovely Anne Carolyn as the Crowned Child.)

While we're on the subject of newish-to-me Verdi — in the question of Ballo, Gert wins! Her recommendation was seconded (by the person selling it to me, but still) and so I've bought the 1975 EMI recording, conducted by Riccardo Muti and featuring Martina Arroyo, Piero Cappuccilli, Fiorenza Cossotto, the gorgeous Reri Grist and some Spanish tenor. I like! It's on a smaller, slightly more intimate scale than I realised (I think I expected something mountainous and Trovatore-esque) and it works for me. Also, this is for all intents and purposes my introduction to both Martina Arroyo and Reri Grist, who are both quite lovely. Of course, every note Oscar sings strengthens my resolves to finally get around to buying the two recordings I mentioned from Premiere Opera.

Popcorn

I'm really not entirely sure what I think of the Met's Hansel & Gretel which I saw at the movies on Saturday. This is partly because, for reasons wholly unrelated to the standard of the performance, I drifted in and out of the first half. Testament, if nothing else, to the success of Sasha Jones' Sandman — her lullaby worked really, really well. Still, I caught enough of the first half to be both fascinated and disconcerted by it. There was something odd about the way it was filmed, the first act in particular. In Romeo et Juliette, I had a real sense of watching a live opera in a theatre; this was more like watching a film. I'm not sure which of these two experiences the Met is primarily aiming to replicate with these broadcasts, but I know I preferred the former. Then again, a slight sense of unreality is probably appropriate for this opera. In any case, I suspect the movie-ish feel had a lot to do with the broadcast having been directed for cinema by Barbara Willis Sweete, the woman responsible for the Kiri Te Kanawa showcase/Handel pasticcio The Sorcerer and Dmitri Hvorostovsky's double turn as Leporello and Don Giovanni in Don Giovanni Unmasked.

Anyway, I'm pretty sure I was impressed. In fact the more I think about it, the more pleased I am by the effect of it all. Visually I think it's gorgeous, in a macabre kind of way. What left the strongest impression on me was the final scene — the death-by-baking of the witch, and subsequent rejoicing. The witch as sung by Philip Langridge is hideous and repellent and yet there's nothing triumphant about this, it's just creepy and murderous. And then when Gretel sticks her finger in the chocolate and leans over to give her brother an all-too-familiar moustache, one which suddenly makes a new kind of sense of his costume and hair, well, my jaw dropped. 

Alice Coote is great in anything she does, and Hansel is no exception. I loved hearing her. For whatever reason I just don't seem to connect musically with this opera, but Alice is always a joy to hear. Christine Schäfer has unbelievably terrible English, her diction is shocking and her accent sometimes makes her a challenge, if not downright impossible, to understand — and yet somehow, though an Anglophone singer with similarly bad German would frustrate me, I find all of this absolutely charming and adorable. Of course it helps that her whole performance is so utterly beguiling; I never expected a grown up woman to make such a convincing little girl. Rosalind Plowright was more overtly frightening than the witch as the mother, and afforded me the trivial pleasure of, for the first time (I think) seeing on the big screen somebody I'd actually met. (Briefly, at Holland Park.) Well done Philip Langridge for doing the travesti thing with such hideous delight. But I'd still rather hear Jane Henschel on the Chandos Opera in English recording — there's all kinds of comic potential in casting a man in the role, but vocally I think it still needs a female voice to be genuinely witchy.

One further point: the English translation used by the Met is the same one, by David Pountney, that the Chandos recording uses. On paper and on record it comes across as a bit forced, overwritten and unnecessarily complex. In live performance it is absolutely appalling, preposterously leaden and charmless. It must be got rid of immediately.

(And yes, I do eat popcorn at these broadcasts. I almost wish they sold popcorn at the opera house, too; opera and popcorn is an excellent combination. Thankfully the Chauvel does very tasty popcorn.)

I ♥ Peter Gelb

Can you guess why?

This afternoon I went to my first Met in HD Cinema Broadcast and I am in love. With the idea of it, with the reality of it, and with everybody involved in making it happen. It works. Beautifully. Not a glitch in sight, everything looked and sounded wonderful. Even the audience behaved impeccably, with the exception of the woman who arrived ten minutes late and then complained about being given a less than wonderful seat. (That'll happen when you're late to a sold-out show.)

This was Roméo et Juliette, as seen in the US two weeks ago. My Southern Hemisphere brain still has difficulty grasping that what it's seeing is a recent event, not something on a six month delay, but with seven more broadcasts to come, I'll adjust.

To the performance itself.

Anya! I want to say this about Anna Netrebko right now — as far as I'm concerned, she deserves to be the superstar she's become. This is not the same as saying she deserved to be called one of the great artists of her time. That's another argument. But watever she does or doesn't have, she puts together in a way which is extraordinary. She mightn't always be excellent, but she's always special and always Anna. In any case, Juliette seems like a good fit for her. Not the beginning — she cracked on her first high note and "Je veux vivre" was a bit clunky and (of course) trill-free. After that, though, it was just up and up. I thought she was gorgeous on every level, and the Poison Aria was stunning.

And then the rest. For perhaps the first time in my life, I genuinely enjoyed Roberto Alagna. Which helped. His tights did look like light blue jeans from some angles, and his death throes elicited a silent giggle or two from yours truly, but otherwise it was mostly pretty fantastic. Nathan Gunn was a highlight. I heard him in the radio broadcast of An American Tragedy way back when but hadn't ever seen him in action. It certainly helped me understand the Nathan Gunn Phenomenon a little better; he really is, as the Met publicity claims, irresistible. Isabel Leonard was a pretty impressive Stéphano, too. Never having seen (or heard) the opera in its entirety before, I hadn't realised what an odd role that is — a big hit aria out of the blue, followed by a little Capulet-baiting, and then he disappears again. It's not exactly the greatest opera in the world. But it's pretty enough in its very French way and there are some great moments.

Speaking of great moments — as much as I now love Peter Gelb, I love Renée Fleming more, on account of the intermission feature. She is eerily in her element as chatty, smiling interviewer. Her conversation with Placido was charming. She's a blessing — a relatable, appealing host who also just happens to be RENEE FLEMING and therefore seriously well informed about opera. Meanwhile there's Anna being equally charming, in her own nutty way — making faces at the camera when coming offstage, and then, even better, hurtling into the background while Renée was speaking to the camera, in the manner of those annoying people who wave behind reporters in the street.

Yet despite all of this brilliance, do you know which part of the broadcast I loved most? The clip shown during intermission of Natalie's Lucia. There she was, my Natalie, on the big screen, being too amazing to be believed. I was instantly in floods of tears. Hate to think what kind of state I'll be in for La fille du régiment. At least I have a while to prepare.