Prima la musica

Der Rosenkavalier

Sorry not to have written about it before now. I've been complaining left, right and centre about Opera Australia's failure to market this Rosenkavalier, so it's probably poor form on my part not to have been plugging it madly here. (Though I did at least plug it there.) But I'd be preaching to the converted, wouldn't I? I don't need to tell you that Cheryl/Catherine/Emma/Strauss/pretty frocks is an unmissably gorgeous combination; we need to tell everyone else, apparently, because it's still not filling houses. Have a look at the seating plans on the Opera House website, if you fancy having your heart broken; closing night's quite fully booked, to be fair, but otherwise it's looking pretty sparse.

I could go on at length here about the (lack of) marketing — about the fact, for instance, that not one poster for it was up at the opera house until after opening night, or about the fact that there's a twenty year old photo of Joan Carden on the program — but I shall stop myself there. It just gets me upset, and it gets in the way; and the only reason it matters so much to me, after all, is that this show deserves so much better. So instead I'll try just to talk about why that is.

There's Cheryl Barker, obviously. I've already written about her. And unusually, for a Cheryl show, I haven't felt the need to keep on writing and writing after every show, to document every detail and change. I couldn't tell you exactly why. Pulling her to pieces, even in the most adoring way, just doesn't seem the right thing to do this time. In the Marschallin she has found a character as subtle as she is; so whereas the detail she brought to, say, Manon Lescaut was a thought-provoking luxury, for the Marschallin it's just natural and good and right — and far more beautiful when left alone by me, I think. I mean, I've never been able adequately to describe Cheryl, but describe her as the Marschallin? Can't be done. 

Catherine Carby is a really quite wonderful Octavian. She sings and sings, with unflagging energy, refinement and beauty of tone. It's hard to make Octavian a three dimensional character — Strauss really doesn't give him a chance to show much depth — but Catherine does what she can. Her scenes with Sophie are particularly touching and she's a bit of a scream when Mariandel-ing. And she's impressed me more with each performance (although ovations have been loud and stompy from the start) so I'm glad I've waited till now to write about her. On Wednesday, the fourth performance, she outdid herself, and I think she knew it: she was in (slightly contagious) tears at the curtain call, and the crowd went wild.

And then there's our Sophie, Emma Pearson. There I was, on opening night, still recovering from my Act I tears, and along came Emma to set me off again, but this time from sheer delight. Vocally she's the Sophie of my dreams, more lyric than soubrette, as pretty and pearly in the lower part of her voice as in those to-die-for floated high notes. And as a character, she's just captivating. She's skittish and hilarious, but she has a backbone too, and a fundamental solemnity, which had me, for once, not shaking my head at Octavian's choice. Just as we could still see the young girl in Cheryl's Marschallin, so in Emma's irresistible Sophie we see hints of the lovable woman she'll become; the two really do come across as phases of the same existence, not polar opposites. She's also, incidentally, the spitting image of Natalie Dessay. It's kind of spooky. 

With characteristic soprano bias, I tend to think of the three above as constituting Rosenkavalier's entire principal cast. Then I remember that there's Ochs. You couldn't have the opera without him, I suppose, and he does have his moments. My own preference is for an Ochs who's a bit scary: it is, after all, a hideous arrangement that he's made regarding Sophie, as comically as it's treated. Manfred Hemm isn't at all scary. He is quite funny though, and he has low notes where it counts and an idiomatic command of the language (and Austrian accent) which help him keep even the longest stretches of recit reasonably entertaining. He's funniest in his interactions with Faninal; the business with Sophie is a bit too pantomimey for me, and I think he could stand to look a lot more surprised when things go haywire at the Inn.

Unchallenged star of the supporting cast is Warwick Fyfe, whose Faninal is blusteringly hilarious, and all the more hilarious because he sings with such serious Germanic heft. Henry Choo also deserves kudos for contending with "Di rigori armato", which is a hell of an aria to just walk in and sing cold. Jacqui Dark and Andrew Brunsdon camp it up something chronic as Annina and Valzacchi, Teresa La Rocca is a rather funny (though not 'specially German sounding) Marianne Leitmetzerin and there's a host of featured chorus members darting about in Acts I and III . And of course I am always happy to see and hear Stephen Bennett in absolutely anything. Here he is his usual commanding self as both the Marschallin's attorney and the police commissioner. Not much concerted chorus work here, but what there is is nicely done.

And while the Opera Theatre pit conditions are probably about as unconducive to good Strauss as it gets, Andrew Litton actually does quite a marvellous job with the orchestra. It's nice and loud but not blaringly so — even from the front row, the balance isn't impossible, so from sensible seats I'm sure it's even better — and he conjures up a higher degree of decadence and pretty-Straussy-wonderfulness than I might have thought possible from the Pit of Despair. You still wouldn't want to do Elektra there, but this confined Rosenkav is certainly not doing Strauss an outright disservice.

I'm writing this moments before hopping on public transport to see performance number five. I could, if I weren't so hopeless, have written almost exactly the same thing after opening night. This show is consistent in its gorgeousness. It's also consistent in what I consider its only drawback: a really rather dull production. Grand sets, gorgeous frocks, but dramatic insight is left to the whim of the singers, as far as I can tell, and there's some very disappointing staging of key moments — the Presentation of the Rose in particular is a serious anticlimax. But this is Der Rosenkavalier, and therefore it is beautiful, and dull in this case is far preferable to obstructive. In the end what it comes down to is this: Cheryl Barker, Catherine Carby and Emma Pearson, singing some of the most insanely lovely music ever written for their respective voice types, in an opera whose charm and occasional transcendence I think ultimately do outweigh its longueurs.

More to the point — you've got that trio. Sung by those women. That's all you need. It's as good as it gets.

Milestone

Would it be very dull and predictable of me to say she was perfect? There are a million other words I could use, of course, and I'm sure I will use most of them in due course, but nothing else seems quite so all-encompassing as perfect. 

Now. There is no such thing as objective perfection in any role, and especially not the Marschallin. There's no Official Marie Therese Checklist nor any single predecessor to match. She was stunning and heartbreaking and significant on all kinds of levels, and I've no doubt that she'll be described as perfect by others on account of all that. But right at this moment, what I'm talking about is a far more personal perfection. She was perfect for me.

It isn't just that she was all I wished. It's that she combined wish fulfillment with exquisite surprise. Cheryl's Marschallin was the ideal amalgam of my Marschallin — the heroine I've adored these many years — and hers, her own creation, just like every role she takes on. In the past, Cheryl's conception of a role has, by sheer dint of my own limited experience, become mine. This time, two conceptions came together,  and the result? I can't imagine a more wonderful way to meet my Marie Therese. 

Cheryl's Marschallin neither obliterates nor replaces nor embodies wholesale my imagined Marschallin. She is her — and now also my — own special creation. She takes strands of my imagination and weaves them into her own particular magic. She is revelatory one moment, achingly familiar the next. She makes me cry perfectly on cue, at all the bits that always get to me, and then at moments I hadn't expected. I knew, for instance, that I'd fall apart when she began "Da geht er hin", and I completely did. I didn't foresee the flicker of wretched heartbreak, swiftly reined in, on her face at the end of the trio — a moment which so blindsided me that I found myself still staring at the space she'd left even as Octavian and Sophie moved into their duet. 

What struck me about her — though I'd half expected her to choose this path — was how young she was. I've become so used to the Marschallin as grande dame, and as a woman looking back on a youth that's already passed, that I forget she's actually only 32. Most women who sing her are older, of course, and tend to play her as such, but Cheryl's Marschallin really does seem to be 32 — not a femme d'un certain age, but a woman very much still on the cusp of middle age, still coming to terms with the maturity which time and circumstance and etiquette are foisting upon her. There are traces everywhere of the girl, and of a still-young woman — because she is still young — and so her moments of crisis, of panic, of depression and then of acceptance are all the more devastating.

Because for once this is a crisis-in-progress, a Marschallin truly in a state of flux, and that acceptance comes at a cost, slightly tear-stained. There's nothing aloof about Cheryl's Marschallin, no beatific resolution: she's pulled herself together by the end, but you feel this is just one episode of an internal battle she'll be fighting for years to come. I hate to use the word timeless about her approach, because it sounds somehow ethereal when Cheryl is all about groundedness; but what I would say is that there's nothing archaic about her Marschallin. She brings a very intimate sensibility to the role which would make as much sense in a modern setting as it does in this very traditional one.

I have done my usual thing and apparently written only about the acting, but as always with Cheryl, the singing is an implicit part of all I've said. It's all one; everything above applies to the way she sound as well as the way she acts, including that fateful word, perfect. Perfect for me. I will never know how she does it, how she opens that voice up in such rippling layers of silver and purple and yet sounds like she's just talking, how she can create such utter beauty but almost never let you wallow in it. There's no choice but to engage with her at every level — aural, physical, textual, emotional; you cannot separate one part of her artistry and leave the rest aside. At least I can't. Clearly.

This, then, is as much of an answer as I can currently muster to all the questions and I-don't-knows of my previous post. It isn't by any means a review, obviously; I do know that there are other people in the show, and there's plenty to say in praise of them. But I had to write about Cheryl first. Of course I did. There is nobody on earth (or in theoretical dead-singer heaven, for that matter) to whom I would rather have entrusted my first live Marschallin, and on Friday night she repaid that trust more fully and more perfectly than I could have imagined. And do you know the best bit? We've only just begun.

Eine ernste Abend, eine grosse Abend

Tonight will be an important night, although just how important I don't yet know. It will be important because — for what, by my count, is the 48th time — Cheryl Barker will sing and I'll be there to hear her. It will be important because it's been a year since Cheryl last sang for OA. It will be important because she's making a major role début, and because the role in question is one of the most complex and beautiful heroines in the repertoire. It will be important because she's an important singer singing important repertoire.

But there is more to it for me than all the above. Something which has already made me teary at this, the second paragraph of what I imagine will be quite a long piece of writing. Tonight, for me, two milestones will collide — if milestones can do that — and I don't know just what to expect. Tonight, Cheryl will make her début as the Marschallin. And tonight, after what could be called a lifetime's anticipation, I'll see my first live Rosenkavalier and finally come face to face with a woman I adore: Princess Marie Therese von Werdenberg.

You see, here's the thing. In the four years since I half-stumbled upon her Jenufa, I have seen Cheryl in twelve different roles. A huge variety of repertoire, but all, as it happens, with one thing in common. In one way or another, Cheryl introduced me to all twelve of those women. Desdemona, Arabella, Francesca da Rimini, Donna Agnes, Rusalka, even Cio-Cio San — I discovered them, and their operas, through Cheryl. And yes, this speaks to some extent to my comparative operatic infancy, but it's also been a case of pure exquisite coincidence too. So I've fallen (in varying degrees) for these heroines and they've been synonymous with Cheryl from the outset — and that synonymity is what I've become accustomed to.

But now, tonight, we finally strike an exception. Cheryl will be my first live Marschallin. But as a person, as an idea, as a musical and dramatic entity, I have known — and loved — Marie Therese since before I even knew there was a Cheryl. As a character, she drew me in even while I was still coming to grips with Strauss's music; once I realised that what she was singing was some of the best and most beautiful music in the entire world, I loved her even more dearly. And the point is, I've loved her independently of any one singer — and in fact, independently of opera itself. The Marschallin exists — music, words and actions all incorporated into a tangibly intangible human being — and it's that Marschallin, who would continue to exist even if she were never sung again by anyone, whom I've known since I was very small and loved for as long as I've loved opera.

This is why tonight is more important to me than a usual Cheryl night. Usually it's just Cheryl who makes it important. But this time, so does the role she's singing. My first live Marschallin would be an important occasion no matter who she was;  the fact that she's Cheryl multiplies that importance beyond the reach of mere mathematics, and what outcome will be, I just don't know. I do know that the last time I saw Cheryl sing Strauss, I spent the next two days in a haze of beguilement, and that was in an opera I barely knew, as a heroine I'd never given much consideration. I also know that everybody I've spoken to who was at the final dress rehearsal on Wednesday seems to have staggered out of there with only her name on their otherwise speechless lips. I know that Strauss is Strauss and Cheryl is Cheryl, and I know how spectacularly susceptible I am to them both.

And I know that it will be, well, good. At some vaguely objective level it's fair to assume that Cheryl's début as the Marschallin is going to be significant and successful; you don't need to love her like I do to appreciate that. But at a personal level I don't know how good, or what kind of good, or which superlatives will suggest themselves first as replacements for "good", or just what effect all of that goodness will have upon me. I don't know how Cheryl will affect my view of the Marschallin, or, for that matter, how the Marschallin will affect my view of Cheryl. In what state I'll eventually drag myself out of the opera house remains to be seen. Whether I'll make it out alive remains to be seen. 

What's certain is that eighteen hours from now we will be twenty minutes into Act I and life will already be different. Cheryl, Marie Therese, Richard, Hugo et moi, all together at last. What comes next, ich weiss gar nicht — but I'm oh so ready to find out.

Rigoletto

A few words about Rigoletto. At this point I won't rashly promise anything longer, since lately I seem perpetually to be making that promise and very rarely keeping it. So better for now that I just say nothing. (Sorry, by the way, for the sparsity of posting in recent weeks/months. Lots going on, much of it wonderful, very little of it bloggable. I do intend to resume normal transmission eventually. I hope you'll bear with me till then.)

Anyway, Rigoletto. Alan Opie had been ill at the final dress rehearsal and had pulled out after Act I. He was back for opening night but it was clear from the outset he wasn't functioning at full strength. When I saw Lyndon Terracini hovering down beside the stage at the end of the first interval, I thought we were about to see Warwick Fyfe take over the title role, but instead he announced that Opie, despite an inflamed throat, would soldier on. And so he did, valiantly. Act Two was a serious struggle — there were moments I thought the voice had given out completely — but for Act Three he was back in better shape. Still on the subdued side for my tastes, but it was hard to tell how much of that was illness and how much just his usual style. So, all in all, a reasonably strong Rigoletto but given his indisposition, hard to judge properly; I'd want to hear him sing it in good health before coming to any conclusions. Whereas the subduedness of our Duke, Paul O'Neill, had no such excuse. Quite an appealing, Italianate voice, but a stage presence (or lack thereof) which effectively turned his role into a supporting one at best. Elegant, certainly, but very hard to buy as the all-conquering rake. 

Probably no surprise then, that the night belonged to Emma Matthews; but even in more blindingly brilliant company I suspect it would still have been her show. I confess I had misgivings about Emma in this role ahead of time — I knew she'd ace the sparkly coloratura bits of it but was concerned she'd be swamped in the big moments — but she put paid to all my doubts. She was certainly a small scale Gilda but she was both audible and lovely throughout — the feathery quality in her voice which I sometimes find a bit underwhelming had been replaced with an altogether more luscious tone, and I was hooked. "Caro nome" was perfect, obviously, but it was always going to be; it was her gorgeousness in all the other stuff which really made my night. 

Among the supporting cast I liked David Parkin's spooky Sparafucile, David Corcoran's supercool Borsa, and Elizabeth Campbell's doddery Giovanna the best, although quite why anyone thought Campbell should also be Maddalena I cannot fathom. Maestro Reggioli I thought handled it all quite beautifully, sensitive to the needs of his singers (none of whom had vast Verdian voices) to be heard but also made sure the orchestra's prettiness could be heard too — at least from Row D — and made it big when it needed to be. 

And that will do for now. I shall post a link when my review for The Opera Critic is online. I probably won't see the show again now until the cast change, as I'm keen to see and hear both Warwick Fyfe's Rigoletto and David Corcoran's Duke. But in the meantime there's the small matter of a major life experience — Cheryl Barker's Marschallin — to contend with. I'm not game to make any predictions about just how much bloggage this will receive, but I think it's fair to say she'll take over my October well and truly. And I can not wait.

F is for...

...Fanciulla

I'm sorry I didn't manage to post a full-length post about this show. It's not the show's fault, but rather of me and of circumstances beyond my control; even my legit review took me longer than I'd have liked to get online, and what with one thing and another, it became clear I wasn't going to get it properly blogged. 

That doesn't mean I can't scrape together a paragraph or two, however. I thought Fanciulla was good, solid, romantic fun. The nice thing about a Puccini opera with a happy ending is that it allows for the whole drama to be treated in quite a lighthearted way, which is what Nigel Jamieson's production does, with all its cinematic contrivances and homages and slightly (or totally) exaggerated visual effects. Anke Hoeppner was an engaging and increasingly opulent Minnie: I liked that she gave the character a bit of maturity and savvy, rather than trying to play her as a totally winsome miners' sweetheart. And she was genuinely funny, especially in the second act as she prepared for her date with the bandit. Carlo Barricelli, as said bandit, had some of the thrillingest top notes I've ever heard from a tenor, and I just wish the rest of his voice was consistent with them — there are gorgeous passages, and then baffling passages, and in the end his singing is all the more frustrating because you know it can be amazing, but isn't always. He also seemed to forget to act; but his sheepish grin is so disarming it was hard to care. John Wegner was a dream-of-a-nightmare as a rather ghoulishly made-up Sheriff — possibly played more diabolically than the character, who is hardly Scarpia, really deserves, but he's so scintillating to watch that it hardly mattered. And his singing was some of the classiest (and loudest, in the best sense) of the evening. 

The supporting cast is huge — pretty much all the usual (male) suspects of the OA ensemble have been roped in and tonight is not the name for praising them all individually and by name. They're all good. But if I were to name standouts, Barry Ryan (Sonora), David Corcoran (Nick) and Andrew Jones (Jake Wallace and José Castro) would all feature, as would Dominica Matthews as the racially stereotyped (well, she is) Wowkle, the only other girl in the village. The men of the chorus are also fantastic, but then, they always are. And Arvo Vollmer keeps everything sounding good'n'western, sweeping strings and all that, with the cinematic stylings of the production helping to point up just how much the score sounds like those of the spaghetti westerns which would follow. 

...Figaro

I'll make you a deal. I saw the opening of Figaro last night. I fly to Paris tomorrow. There isn't time for me to write anything of decent length now. But practically the first thing I'm doing when I get back home — after sleeping — is going back to Figaro, in order to catch Peter Coleman-Wright's final performance as the Count. Because Peter Coleman-Wright is dead cool and well worth enduring travel-induced exhaustion. So at that point, I promise to blog properly about it. For now let me say that Neil Armfield's production, while not a towering EVENT on the level of his Britten stagings, is properly one of the most engaging Figaros around — it looks good, it's funny, and it doesn't drag, which is no mean feat in Figaro. Especially a Figaro which includes (oh yes) Marcellina's and Basilio's always cut arias. (The former of these, as sung by Jacqui Dark, is actually one of the highlights of the show. Trust me.) Personally, and this may be controversial, I'm not entirely convinced by Teddy and Taryn as the central couple. That's a pretty minor point though, in the scheme of things; it's very much an ensemble piece, so even if you agree with me (and you probably won't) there are plenty of other people on stage to keep you happy. 

...France, Francesca and Farewell

As I say, I'm flying to Paris tomorrow. (It's a hard life, I know.) I'm spending two weeks there doing absolutely nothing operatic — unless I stumble onto something — and then a week in London, where I'll see the final three performances of Opera Holland Park's Francesca da Rimini, with the one and only Cheryl Barker in the title role. I'm not sure how much internet access, or for that matter, how much blog fodder I'll have while I'm away. So if I you don't see me for a while, you'll know why, although you're probably getting used to these long absences by now anyway, regardless of overseas travel. And now I really should go and pack my suitcase for this trip. A bientôt. 

A Little (more) Night Music

As I said the other night, if A Little Night Music was staged by anyone other than Opera Australia — and I went, which is in itself not hugely likely — then it probably wouldn't even occur to me to blog about it. Not because it's not wonderful, but because it's not opera, and I don't think anybody is trying to claim that it is. So in some ways I feel writing about it is not quite within my jurisdiction — that I should leave it to those better versed in the intricacies of this particular art form — but in the end, it is an Opera Australia show, and my completist sensibilities would be outraged if I left it completely alone.

I have always been, in case you were wondering, a musicals sort of person. I mean, not in the way I'm an opera person — or a bluegrass person, for that matter — but they're definitely something I've always responded to. That said, I'm still pretty green when it comes to Sondheim; it's the Lerner & Loewe and Rodgers & Hammerstein sort of musicals which define the genre for me. But enough people I know and respect have told me Sondheim Is A God for me to believe it, at least theoretically, and the more I hear and see of his work, the more I see their point. As a relative novice, I'm not going to start delineating all the reasons why — partly because I couldn't (too many, too complex) and mostly because I needn't. Chances are you either already know or will never agree.

To the show itself. I liked it a lot. It happens to contain one of my favourite songs ever, "Every Day A Little Death", which I fell for as a nine year old courtesy of one Debra Byrne. (Even if, at nine, I wondered why the man in question "talked softly" of both "his horses" and "his horse".) So that was a high point for me, especially as it was delivered so magnificently by Katrina Retallick (yes, I know it's a duet, but for me it's all about Countess Charlotte's half) who I thought gave one of the best, funniest and most genuinely touching performances in the whole show. And of course it also contains the way overexposed "Send in the Clowns", which reminded me of "Nessun dorma", such a runaway hit that it probably garners applause automatically, regardless of how well it's performed and despite the fact that, in context, it doesn't necessarily demand that reaction. I thought Sigrid Thornton pulled it off just beautifully, made it her own, and made such a quiet, poignant moment of it that all the clapping really felt quite inappropriate. But what can you do? Silence after "Send in the Clowns" would be disastrous, I guess. I can't say I loved the rest of Sigrid's performance quite as much — she kept going all Judi Denchish in the delivery of her dialogue, which really doesn't suit anyone but Judi — but for the most part she was quite persuasive, and I was pleased when everything worked out for her Désirée. 

I suspect Anthony Warlow is one of those performers who either works for you or doesn't. He works for me. I could see that his Fredrik was to some extent just another variation on the basic Warlow persona, but since I find that persona so charismatic — and since it suited both the character and the mood of the show quite well — I was happy to just laugh and enjoy him. There's no denying the man has stage presence — he somehow dominated the "Now/Later/Soon" trio from beneath the bedclothes — and his light, lithe baritone is always a pleasure in this sort of stuff. He was quite sweet in his scenes with Désirée, but perhaps more in his element in the more purely farcical interations with Ben Lewis as a hilariously pompous and Cleesesque Carl-Magnus. Matthew Robinson was a terribly nervy, intense Henrik, vocally quite powerful but a bit too cringeing for my tastes, though I suppose that's in line with all the sexual repression. I found Lucy Maunder similarly difficult to warm to as the desperately virginal Anne; she is quite sweet and sincere, I think, but her demeanour was so relentlessly kittenish that I struggled to find sympathy for her. She sounded a bit thin at the top of her voice, too, though the middle is quite warm and appealing. I found Erica Lovell's spring-loaded Fredrika a bit over the top too, despite obvious talent. 

Maybe I just have issues with ingénues. The other women I loved. As the maid, Petra, Kate Maree Hoolihan camped up her early scenes something chronic but settled down in time to deliver a spellbinding and virtuosic "Miller's Son" which got the loudest ovation of the night. Nobody, however, could outdo the divine Nancye Hayes, whose glorious Madame Armfeldt — dripping with antique jewelry and Wildean aphorisms, delivering advice on illicit affairs as if it were court etiquette — was hands down the classiest performance of the evening. For all the busy, complex, showstopping numbers elsewhere (and there is some fabulous music in this show) Nancye's exquisitely understated "Liaisons", in which she sang simply, barely moved, and yet commanded the stage, was for me one of the most impressive and most memorable moments of the show. A admiring quintuple nod, too, to the Liebeslieders — Jacqui Dark, Kanen Breen, Byron Watson, Jane Parkin and Katherine Wiles — who weave in and out like the world's best dressed Greek chorus, providing copious hilarity and vocal glamour along the way.

Stuart Maunder's production is pretty frothy, heavy on Roger Kirk frocks and light on psychology; not unlike his Manon, which we saw a few months ago. I'm sure Night Music could withstand, and benefit from, a more probing treatment than this, but it's still a very enjoyable show, worthy of both the company and Sondheim even if it's not what you'd call revelatory. It's definitely more successful than My Fair Lady — the cast helps with that — although Sweeney Todd still beats them both. (Well, it would, wouldn't it?) Andrew Greene and a version of the AOBO sound like they're having fun with it, and these days it's probably quite a rare luxury to hear a musical played by such a proper orchestra; a luxury Sondheim's rich and sophisticated score certainly deserves. And I do love that everything's in some form of triple time, a sort of perpetual, kaleidoscopic waltz. Very clever, Mr S. 

I know some people object to Opera Australia staging musicals. I wouldn't object if they didn't stage them, but since they do, I find it hard to be truly enraged. For one thing, it's money-spinners such as this which fund the kind of repertoire I want, Britten and Janacek and Brett Dean. For another, it's a particularly stylish choice of money-spinner. It's not opera, it doesn't pretend or need to be opera, and it's unlikely to win converts among the vigorously opposed, but on its own terms, OA's Night Music is a good, fun show with plenty to recommend it. I won't beg and implore you to go — it's not that sort of thing — but if you are tempted, then I say, succumb.

A (very) Little Night Music

Just in case you think I've either disappeared completely or decided to make some kind of statement by not blogging about A Little Night Music, I thought I should just leave this quick note to say that neither is actually the case. It's true Night Music doesn't stir my loquacity as opera proper does — my review for The Opera Critic is one of few I've written whose first draft wasn't wildly over the word limit — and if I'd seen it staged by anyone other than Opera Australia, it's quite likely I wouldn't write about it here. 

However, it is an Opera Australia production, and it's also a gorgeous and very clever work, so I have every intention of writing about it. (It also contains Jacqui Dark, which is reason enough to write about anything.) And I would have done so tonight, had I not been overcome partway through by the need to listen to Britten. I'm sure you understand. For the moment, let me just say that I think it's a very fun show with some lovely performances, well worth catching if you're at all that way inclined, and that while of course I'd never object to Opera Australia doing nothing but, you know, opera, as the s0-called lite fare goes, I'd happily take Sondheim over G&S. More soon. 

Excitement

I'm in a curious state. I have been missing my opera company dreadfully these past few months. I want them back this moment — or possibly sooner. And yet when I look at the upcoming season, I must confess, I find it hard to whip myself up into a bona fide frenzy. Not that I wish to look my gift horses in the mouth — I am still just un-jaded enough to be grateful for pretty much whatever I'm given — but, well, it's not exactly what you'd call an earth-shattering line-up, is it? There's a multiple choice quiz at the front of the winter season brochure, entitled "What Opera Am I?", and even if you pick all the "I-want-something-new-and-different" options, it still recommends you Rigoletto and Pirates of Penzance. Sigh.

However. I do understand. Life can't be all Bliss and Britten, and deep down I don't suppose I really want it to be either. (Though I wouldn't mind.) The fact remains that, warhorsey as it might be, there's still a lot of the standard repertory that I've never yet seen live, so I'm hardly in a position to turn my nose up at it. I haven't forgotten, either, that I made similar mutterings after the season launch, and again in advance of the summer season. And look what happened — the repertoire was conservative, but the casting was thrilling enough that each one of those warhorses had its revelations. Aldo Di Toro's Alfredo, Takesha Meshé Kizart's Tosca, Julian Gavin's Des Grieux and of course John Wegner's Scarpia, all these — and others — provided excitement aplenty before I'd even got to my Britten and my Bliss. 

So in the spirit of optimism, and since, as you know, I can't resist a list, here are Ten Reasons I'm Excited About The Winter Season. 
 

1. Nigel Jamieson's spaghetti western inspired production of La fanciulla del West. If you haven't seen the trailer, you should. Black and white sets, villains with faces painted deathly pale, film projections, and then Minnie a big, bright splash of colour. If it looks as good in the flesh as in the trailer then I think it could be quite wonderful; in purely visual terms it's the production I'm keenest to see of the whole winter line-up.

2. The proper return of Anke Hoeppner. After eleventh hour show-saving performances in The Makropulos Case and Fidelio, I am very much looking forward to hearing Anke in a role she's actually scheduled to sing. Not to mention seeing her actually in costume and on stage, rather than singing up a storm over on the side. 

3. Evil Personified. Otherwise known as the awesome John Wegner. Need I say more? 

4. Peter Coleman-Wright. As Count Almaviva. Obviously Peter in absolutely anything would make my Excitement List, but the more I think about it, the giddier I am at the prospect of his Count. For starters, I can't wait to see him in a comedy for once. I love the idea of such a huge presence and forceful voice in that role — quite a change from José Carbo, who sings it later in the season and whom I also adore, but for very different reasons. I can't wait to hear every baritone's favourite competition aria, "Hai gia vinta", transfigured by star power. And above all, well, it's Peter and I am his superfan. So there.

5. The chance to re-visit Neil Armfield's Figaro. I saw this production three years ago, during my first full opera season. Before I had been made cognisant of the universal (well, at least in my universe) truth that Neil Armfield Is A God. So while I enjoyed his Figaro last time, I didn't really pay as much attention as might have to his side of it. I was more interested in Joshua Bloom's fantastic Figaro, and of course the wonderful Leanne Kenneally as the Countess. This revival has its share of singerly distractions too, of course, but my eyes are opener than before to Armfield Miracles and I'm intrigued to see what I might discover second time around. 

6. The Sonnambula dream cast. It's almost too much for me. Emma Matthews and Aldo Di Toro and Lorina Gore and Stephen Bennet and Jacqui Dark and Kanen Breen. All at once. It's almost as if they'd let me cast it. 

7. Peter Carroll in Pirates of Penzance. I think it's pretty well established that my favourite thing about Gilbert and Sullivan is that it funds the operas I actually want to see — Janacek and Britten and the like. The Mikado was reasonably good fun but musically, G&S is just not something I seem able to appreciate deeply. So I didn't anything could make me incredibly excited about Pirates, but then they went and cast Peter Carroll, with whom I've been besotted since his silent Dr Crabbe in Peter Grimes, as the Major-General — and now incredibly excited is exactly what I am.

8. David Corcoran's Duke of Mantua. I don't want to jinx him with too much hype too early but it's hard to conceal how what a special talent I think David is. Every performance strengthens my conviction, and I'm torn between the hope that he will go forth and conquer the world, and the wish to keep him here for us and cast him (in time) in everything. Anyway, this is a major role début for David and I'd say it's not to be missed.

9. The Presentation of the Rose. It will be the first time I've heard it sung live. I was enough of a mess when it showed up during the orchestral suite which the SSO played before Das Lied von der Erde, but the real thing? With voices? From the front row? (Which is where I'm sitting for almost all of my eight Rosenkavs.) It's going to be an experience, to say the least.

10. Well, what do you think? Cheryl Barker as the Marschallin. Although I'm not sure if excitement is the word. It's the sense of some sort of sublime homecoming. Cheryl and I have had along run of roles which she has effectively introduced me to — she was my first Emilia Marty, my first Arabella, my first Manon Lescaut and to all intents and purposes, my first Cio-Cio San. But the Marschallin and I go back further than that, to before I knew there was a Cheryl. So I adore them both independently of one another, and the thought of the two coming together is extraordinary. I can't wait to see what each brings out in the other, and to fall a little bit more in love with both of them.


That's ten. And call me Pollyanna, but the simple process of putting this list together has already heightened my enthusiasm for the coming season. I mean it is opera after all. The love of my life and all that. So of course it's exciting, and I could probably add more to the list now if I tried. But I shall leave it there for now. Please go ahead and share your own excitements in the comments — point out everything I've missed — and together I think we might just whip up a frenzy after all.

The end of the beginning

At first I thought about titling this post "The End of Bliss", and then I realised that was completely inappropriate, because it wasn't. Closing night in Melbourne might have concluded the opera's premier Australian run, but that's as much finality as I'm willing to acknowledge. And not just because there's still the two Edinburgh Festival performances and the new production in Hamburg to come. What I saw on Saturday evening was an opera with all the polish, vitality and pliability to keep on keeping on, beyond this country, this cast or the first flurry of hype. Bliss as an opera, as an independent musical entity, has emerged with all the strength and polish I had hoped for, and more (and in different flavours, if you can have flavoured polish) besides. 

That's not to say that it outdid my Sydney experience. It didn't, and it didn't need to, and in fact I'm not even sure that the comparison is relevant. I mean, if I do throw them all in together, then I suppose I would rate this as perhaps the third-best performance of the seven I've seen. That sounds awful, doesn't it? Consider that the best was one of the thrillingest nights of opera I've ever had, however, and it's not nearly so bad. And even number seven on that list, if I worked it out, would still have been an excellent performance, because there weren't any that weren't. I loved it every time, and the difference from performance to performance has really not been so much in the degree of that love as in the variety.

So Sydney Bliss and Melbourne Bliss have been two different creatures. Two, rather than seven. I saw it six times here, and while each performance of course has its own individual existence — and for many people constituted the entirety of their Bliss experience — for me, the season felt much more like six segments of a single, developing whole.  And it also felt — there's no other way to put this — like it was mine. I felt (and still feel, and will probably always feel) a degree of possessiveness about Bliss, and it's not surprising that that emotion was strongest during its Sydney season. Sydney's Bliss is the Bliss I ate, breathed and slept, and the one with which I fell in love. 

Melbourne's isn't. But it's many other things, and above all, it's the Bliss which properly crystallised the sentiments in my first paragraph. After a month off and a change of setting, I was able detach myself just a little, and to engage with Bliss on terms closer to those on which I'd engage with any performance of a favourite opera — still besotted, still (let's face it) biased, but nevertheless, not personally invested in quite the same way. Which, while less intense and, alright, a bit less fun than my Sydney experience, confirmed what I had already more or less concluded, which is that Bliss doesn't depend on my or anyone else's personal attachment to be brilliant. It just is brilliant. 

This has all come out a bit more clinically than I expected. (Although to be properly clinical it would probably need fewer italics.) But, hey, you get enough breathless rhapsodising from me anyway, without my manufacturing it for a performance which elicited a different sort of positive response. I'm sure you get my drift; at least, I hope you do.

I've also neglected to say anything much about the actual performance. Which is sort of ridiculous of me, although then again, I don't know what there is to add — all previous praise applies, basically. Merlyn Quaife was a wonder, Lorina Gore was adorable, David Corcoran is Going Places, Taryn Fiebig owns the role of Lucy in perpetuity, Barry Ryan was brilliant (and his Alex was feistier in Melbourne than in Sydney), Kanen Breen is a fiendishly good adlibber of insults. You know all this. There were a couple of tweaks in the staging — Harry and Honey pledged their love further downstage, Alex and Harry did an impressively elaborate office-chair dance instead of just skidding around, and Honey was, inexplicably, a blonde. I think a couple of spoken syllables are now sung, probably just for clarity's sake. Brett Dean's unfathomably rich score is even richer played from a decent orchestra pit; I was hearing things all night that I hadn't even known were there. I did struggle a little (from Row H-for-Harry) with the effect of said pit, and of the larger space, on the balance between singers and orchestra; I suspect I've spoilt myself a bit here by always sitting so close. The foyers and escalators of the Arts Centre continue to defeat both my navigational sense and my phone. And what else — oh, yes, that's right — Peter Coleman-Wright was and is made of magic, his Harry beautiful beyond words. He's a privilege, a delight and a total star, and I — in case you hadn't noticed — just think the world of him. 

And now I think that really might be it. We've reached the end of the beginning and the beginning of — well, who knows. The future. A long, happy life. As they say in the films, it's not goodbye, just au revoir. It's been grand, Bliss, and heaven knows I'll miss you — but I've a good feeling about you, and I think we'll meet again.

By the way...

Anyone reading in Melbourne (and there seem to be more of you than usual right now, which makes sense) who wishes to share their impressions of Bliss, Tosca or the soon-to-open La Sonnambula should consider themselves officially invited to so here. And I'll try not to fly into a jealous rage at your surfeit of fabulous baritones. 

Jane Parkin

A couple of years ago, I ventured out to Parramatta for OzOpera's Madama Butterfly. It was a worthwhile excursion for a number of reasons, but my own motivating factor was a certain soprano named Jane Parkin, whose appearance in the finals of the McDonald's Aria competition had left me keen to hear more. I loved her Butterfly and have remained a fan ever since. 

Fast forward to 2010 and Jane is now a member of Opera Australia's Young Artist Program and currently appearing as one of the Nurses in Bliss, whose Melbourne season opens on April 20th. She's also been covering the role of Lucy Joy, Harry's daughter, and in fact sang that role on closing night in Sydney, when Taryn Fiebig was unwell. (And, I might add, she did a pretty fantastic job of it.) Jane's been kind enough to answer a few questions about the Bliss experience and about life as a Young Artist.
 

This year you're a member of Opera Australia's Young Artist program. Can you tell us a bit about how that came about, and about what the program entails? 

I had been working at Opera Australia and interested in the Young Artist program for some years but participants had previously always been invited and I’d never had the chance to apply. Last year Opera Australia opened it up to a nation-wide competition and I thought “Just do it - here’s your chance.” It was difficult because it involved several stages of auditions in Sydney over a number of weeks, and it coincided with final rehearsals and opening night of the Ozopera Butterfly in Melbourne. Two other finalists and I were flying back and forth from Sydney to Melbourne, doing 14 hour days of rehearsals, travelling and coachings. We were absolutely exhausted by the end of it. But it was totally worth it - the program is great.

In addition to the roles and covers we are assigned for the year, we have music and language coachings with OA staff, masterclasses and lessons with visiting artists, movement, dance and fight classes. We also have our own recital and concert programs throughout the year, so it keeps us pretty busy. It’s fantastic getting such intensive individual training. 

In Bliss, you've been playing one of the nurses while also covering the larger role of Lucy, Harry Joy's daughter. How do you go about balancing the two? How does your rehearsal process, as a cover, differ from that of the singer cast in the role? 

As a cover you will generally start rehearsing the part after the cast rehearsals have been going for a while. This is really helpful in that you can observe the cast first and then try it out for yourself on the floor. However, you do have to have the part musically prepared from the first day of cast rehearsals, as you may be needed to step in should your cast member be sick in the early days of rehearsal. I had that happen to me a couple of years ago when I was thrown into a rehearsal room run of Act I as Frasquita in Carmen. I particularly remember a fight with Morales that consisted of me rushing at him and then frantically following his muttered instructions – “tussle with me…now grab the gun…now flourish it… and run off that way…no THAT way!” 

Sometimes covering a part in a show that you’re also performing in is tricky as you might miss some of the action while concentrating on your own plot. But in Bliss doing the two parts worked really well - I was there for all the early rehearsals doing Nurse 2, and as the part is small and self-contained I had plenty of opportunity to observe Taryn’s part once my scene was done.  

Several members of the Bliss cast have spoken about the challenges of learning abrand new opera. How did you go about preparing your two roles? Were there aspects of either you found particularly challenging or particularly appealing? 

I am sure all the members of the cast would agree that there was a moment where everyone was looking at the score and thinking it was impossible. It’s a rich, dense and very difficult score, but I think the final product is amazing.  

I had sung Nurse 1 in an initial workshop and swapping to the other part in that scene sent me utterly mad at first because of the way the parts overlap. Even on opening night I may have accidentally sung one of Teresa’s notes with her. Also when we first added movement to the scene, coordinating that with the speed of the Nurses entries made for a patting head/rubbing tummy-like situation that quite undid us at first. Now I love our scene – we have fun with it.   

 On closing night of Bliss in Sydney, Taryn Fiebig was unwell and you had the chance to sing the role of Lucy Joy. How much notice did you have that this was going to happen? What was that evening like?  

I had seen Taryn the day before so I knew she wasn’t feeling well. I got the official call-up at 10am on the day and I was feeling pretty calm and confident until I went in for a rehearsal on the revolving stage at 5pm. My first entrance I stumbled on the edge of the revolve, nearly fell over, grabbed Peter, looked into his face and promptly sang all my “Stay Dad” lines in the wrong order. After that I was utterly terrified. But I calmed down during the first few scenes and managed to really enjoy the rest of the show. Although I had a thumping headache at the end of the night- too much concentration I think! 

You're about to begin the Melbourne season of Bliss. What's the feeling like among the ensemble as you head into a second season? 

It’s always strange going back into rehearsals for a piece you’ve just performed, but in this case I think we will enjoy the opportunity to keep tweaking the show. It was such an enormous effort from everybody to get it together for Sydney so I think we’re all happy to ‘wear in’ our Bliss shoes a little longer to get them nice and comfy.  

I see on OA's website that you're singing in both A Little Night Music and Rigoletto this season. Any other future plans you can divulge?  

I’m performing a role in the world premiere of an opera called Gabriel as part of the 2010 Australian Trumpet Guild convention in July at the Opera House. That should be really interesting. There are a few more covers this year and some things in the pipeline for next year but that’s all I can say for now. 

Jane Parkin appears as Nurse 2 in Bliss at the Melbourne Arts Centre from April 20th to May 1st. Information/bookings here.

Bliss, a love story

Heaven knows I have channeled all my anticipatory energies into Bliss.  I read the novel, bought (though never watched) the DVD, listened to the orchestral suite and other Brett Dean bits. I promoted it online with a determination which surprised even me. I threw myself into the Twitter campaign. I read every interview and article I could. I mastered the art of subtitles on Movie Maker, just so I could make a surreal Downfall parody. I compulsively photographed the poster and scanned city streets for the back-of-taxi ads. I organised a costume party. And I booked tickets for the entire season before I'd even seen a single performance, an honour not even accorded to Arabella or Peter Grimes. After a long time just being quietly intrigued that it was happening — and pleased that Peter Coleman-Wright was in it because, you know, I quite like him — I turned Bliss into a sort of crucial life event, and the focus of as much explosive excitement as I could muster. 

Which was reckless of me, I suppose, but what could I do? After all, there was never really any possibility that I'd hate it. Even if the music had been unbearable — though frankly, I've never yet run up against any operatic music I'd describe as such — the cast, director and source material were all guarantees against a total trainwreck. And let's be honest, any evening involving three hours in the company of Peter Coleman-Wright is fine by me. Still, lack of hatred — or even just moderate esteem — isn't nearly enough, especially not for a enthusiast like me. What I wanted was the thing I couldn't guarantee. I wanted to fall in love. I could feign a more rational outlook if required, and find a hundred things about Bliss to admire and respect, but the fact is that without that ultimate seduction, the experience would always have been less than complete. 

And it happened. But not right away. I mean, opening night was special. It had to be. It was a capital-E Event. It was the culmination of so many hopes and expectations and of so much preparation, and it was wonderful. It was the only night that garnered a decent standing ovation, too. It still wasn't my night, though. Bliss had caught my imagination and sparked a good deal of affection, but it hadn't captured my heart just yet. Instead, it was my brain that was engaged. I was looking at it lovingly, but critically too: spotting flaws alongside delights. Opening night gave me plenty of fodder for a rave review, and that's essentially what I gave it, but the urge to rush out into the night and declare my love? That hadn't kicked in yet.

Already, though, I felt that it might. While I was troubled by what I perceived as the opera's theatrical shortcomings, I also felt that these had as much do with my own struggle to separate the opera from the novel as anything else. Because on that first night, of course, the novel was my only point of reference — I had nothing else to compare it to. Afterwards, I could compare it to itself; I could respond to each performance in the context of those which had come before, and thus approach the opera as a separate entity. The trick was to convince myself that the material which Amanda Holden had necessarily jettisoned in adapting the novel wasn't now missing from the opera — the opera was an alternate Bliss in which that stuff simply didn't exist. And while one performance wasn't nearly enough to begin to take in Brett Dean's unbelievably rich and complex score, I could already feel it seeping into my veins. No, I couldn't hum any of the tunes (well, except "You won't die") after opening night, but unlike more than one reviewer, I find it impossible to view that as some sort of failing — in the style of Groucho Marx, I think I'd tend to distrust that any opera which I could hum after only one hearing.

The second performance was thus a bit of a clincher — I wanted confirmation of my hopes and my optimistic theories, and I got it. The performances were better and less tentative, my reservations about the drama of it began to matter less, and I could feel my mind begin to wrap itself a bit more tightly around the score. It seemed everything was heading in the right direction. I was still waiting for my own personal explosion, but after this one, felt surer it would come. The third performance, the matinée, was the best yet, helped along by what seemed to me the most responsive audience, if also the smallest. 

It was a turning point for me, too. I felt as if  I'd finally caught up with Bliss; that I had absorbed the basic shape and texture of it now, and could thus really focus on the particular glories of a single performance, rather than feel I was still coming to terms with the opera itself. In other words, it had become a part of my repertoire, if still in a fledgling sense — I felt I was coming to Bliss now in, broadly speaking, the same state of mind as I did to Tosca, or as I will to Sonnambula or (tempting fate here) Kat'a Kabanova. Not quite engraved upon my soul like Don Giovanni or Madama Butterfly or La voix humaine, but definitely a part of my musical consciousness. 

Number four — also known as 80s Night — was a little bit different, an amicable conflict between Bliss-as-event and Bliss-as-opera. The event side was magnificent. For once, my somewhat carefully laid plans came to fruition. At interval we met Brett Dean, a completely lovely man and the only person all evening who appreciated my Joy Division t-shirt without being prompted. And afterwards the leading man obligingly came down to inspect us in our finery, managing (as he does) to charm everybody within a ten-metre radius in the process. Programs were signed, compliments offered, photos taken. So from that point of view it was a thorough success. But our seats at the brass-section end of the front row were not ideal, and while I could appreciate how well everyone was singing and playing — and was heartened to see the standard hadn't slipped one bit — the skewed balance made it hard for me to bask in the glory of it all as completely as I would have liked. And I was still waiting for That Performance.

Which, as I expounded at length, was exactly what came next. No need to repeat all that here, but the crux of it is that here, at performance number five, was where I fell. Actually, no. Not where I fell, but where I realised I had already fallen. I loved it. Not as an idea, or an event, or a vehicle for a favourite singer, but just for itself. More than that, it had become mine. The #donotmissBliss campaign had given me a sense of personal investment in the opera, but that sense of ownership is different, less tangible and more exciting. Without it, I could still have enjoyed my six performances and lavished genuine praise upon Bliss, but with it, well, all that stuff is a lot more fun — and it's the reason this blog post is so unbelievably long. Adoration, as we know, always does make me long-winded. 

And closing night was just beautiful. Not heavy or solemn. In spirit, it was like a three-hour version of Harry's final sonnet — peaceful, radiant, at ease with life and with the eventual end of it. The cast seemed more relaxed than ever, to the point that we even enjoyed the odd, harmless blooper. Peter's Harry seemed warmer and looser-limbed than ever, and in the restaurant, more wonderfully drunk than ever. Later, in the asylum and back at home, there was something eerie about him, a sad, quiet sense of helplessness. He was doing less, it seemed, than he had in previous performances, and once I'd adjusted to that, the effect was unexpectedly poignant. The sonnet itself was some kind of perfect. It was the right way to finish.

Not that it has finished. One season down, two more to go — for this cast — and a second production before the year is out. I hope it won't finish then, either. I want Bliss to live. Not just on principle, although that would be enough, but because I love it. I'm not much interested in whether it's the Great Australian Opera — I'm not even sure such a creature will ever exist, or need to. It's just a really, really good opera and one which deserves a meaningful future. Perfect it ain't, but when the ink dries and the hype settles, I'd like to think we'll come to accept the flaws of this opera as we do those of (let's face it) every single other opera ever written, and let its brilliance flourish. Bliss is a thing of beauty — so let's hope it is indeed a Joy for ever. 

Warwick on Tosca

The Prima la musica baritone interview series continues! (Although actually, the next one will almost certainly be with a soprano.) Warwick Fyfe has just finished up a long Sydney season of Tosca, singing the Sacristan right up until the final performance, in which he made his role début as Scarpia. He'll soon be appearing as the Sacristan in the show's Melbourne season, but in between, he was good enough to answer a few questions about his Tosca experience. 

It's a pretty long interview, this one. We do these via email, so I sent off my questions and was surprised — and delighted — to receive such detailed and fascinating responses. A more ruthless publication might have been obliged to edit for space, but I have no such restrictions; all I've done is split the post up, so just click the link after the first part to read the rest. You'll be glad you did. 
 

  

You've been singing the Sacristan in Christopher Alden's rather unconventional Tosca for about three months now. Can you tell us a bit about the demands of this production, and about Alden's take on the way this character fits into the opera?

As the Sacristan, once I’d got used to simulating the making of coffee (employing the one method I don’t use at home – I have plungers and a small espresso machine in my kitchen!), the only even slightly difficult thing I had to do was hand out the blooming lottery tickets which would always fain stick together, and the desire to oblige the choristers who were understandably in a hurry to get this bit of business over with in good before the climax of the Te Deum made me nervously fumble. The chair I had to sit on for a good long while on stage in Act Three was catastrophically uncomfortable and not in the least adapted to the requirements of generously proportioned buttocks, but pain aside, sitting can hardly be construed as demanding (the sheer torture of my immobility when attempting to render convincingly a dead Scarpia in my one performance in that role made every other physical inconvenience encountered in the show seem like luxury and put me in mind of that character in The Life of Brian hanging from the wall by chains in the dungeon saying wistfully how he dreamed of being put in manacles, just for a few hours.. Indeed I thought I couldn’t stand it after a while and seriously considered putting into practice my wife’s jestingly suggested expedient of simulating a violent death twitch to get me out of such and extremity if it arose! Somehow I got through, though). 

No, the most demanding aspect of the production for me qua Sacristan was nothing to do with physically awkward stage business or anything like that. Rather, it was to do with the dissonance between the reflection of a literal/traditional interpretation of the words, story and characters in Puccini’s music and the requirements of Alden’s production. The moroseness  required of the Sacristan by the latter was at odds at certain points with the music in a way I could not reconcile. Alden was at pains to keep “acting” to a minimum so that I daren’t do so much as flap an arm to emphasise a point and had to confine myself to creeping about sullenly if I was to avoid censure. And this MUST affect the singing. It is a logical fallacy to imagine that the singing and acting are separable. To act and sing in ways which are completely at odds with each other is impossible to sustain in practice, except perhaps in an ultra stylised production with no grounding in any sort of reality, such as a Tristan I saw at Bayreuth one year in which, while performing the love duet, the singers were obliged to carry out a series of bizarre angular chess-like manoeuvres. 

Anyway, at one point in rehearsals the then conductor (Licata) absolutely demanded more of the traditional Sacristan in the music at least than I could manage while skulking around like a peculiarly disagreeable tortoise. Rather than giving occasion for a tiresome and time wasting outburst, I cast an appealing look at the director and I thought received his tacit consent to fudge it, for want of a better word, that is to say, give a little more of something like what the conductor wanted while still doing the director’s production insofar as I was able. To be honest, more trad Sacristan stuff has crept back in during the course of the run, or at least more humour, and this has met with approval in some quarters as being a helpful contrast to the darkness of most of the rest of the score. I’m even flirting with the idea that Puccini may have been right… 

I tried on several occasions to discuss with the director and others the phenomenon whereby seemingly nowadays absolutely anything goes on the production front and yet the music is considered sacrosanct. It may be argued that this allows one to have one’s cake and eat it – innovation in visual matters but something like an authentic experience on the musical level. (I should say that I for one would be against the next step of radical tinkering with music as anything but a rare experiment in a festival or something.) But as I attempted to explain to Alden when trying to discover how to make my little role work in a way radically different from that which I pursued in the old production which was so familiar to me, sometimes one simply cannot do both. Production affects musical performance. It just does. Another straightforward example is the Gaoler section which I perforce perform with much more harshness than I otherwise would because it has been tacked onto the Sacristan and must therefore be all of a piece with it.   

Bliss

Not that I am psychic or anything, but the fact remains that I woke up yesterday morning convinced that the evening's performance of Bliss would be the best yet. Having acquired this habit of seeing entire seasons of things (you know, provided they have a Barker or a Coleman-Wright in them) I've learnt to expect that One Show in which everything is just right — the performance in which everything seems to come together and explode in magnificence, and which maintains a sort of white-hot quality in my memory. Voices flow more freely and are more beautiful than ever, the staging slicker, characterisation at its best and most riveting, orchestra aflame. All those qualities, all at once. 

That was the show I spent most of yesterday expecting, which any law of jinxes will tell you is a very foolish thing to do. I should have spent the day trying to talk myself down. But the conviction remained strong and I even took the rash step of disclosing it on Twitter, for all to see. Wouldn't I have felt silly if the show had been nothing more than very good? Or even if it had been excellent, but only as excellent as all those preceding it.

Well, I don't know how I knew, but I was right. So right it almost hurt. Last night's Bliss was far and away the best of the run so far. It was the one I'd been waiting for, not just since opening night, but since my excitement about the show began, lo these many months ago. And now I'm happier than ever that I held off on the Big Bliss Blog Post, because this is the performance which deserves that kind of documentation. Had I written the long blog review back at the start, it would inevitably have had a sort of anticipatory quality — I would have been trying to express both how I felt then and there, and how I expected I'd feel when it really took flight. Different story now. I'm here not to speculate, but to overflow.

I sensed within a minute that my own crackling excitement was going to be matched. Peter doesn't even sing a note in the first scene, but there was already a freedom and intensity in his performance which boded well, and when he woke up in hospital and sang his first lines, those same qualities came rippling through in his singing as well. I'm not sure when I've heard him in finer voice. He slid between forced jollity and abject fear with touching vulnerability; seemed more alive than ever to the revelations of Betty's New York aria; and when at last the Vision came I knew beyond a doubt we'd arrived at the Night of Nights. 

So there we were in our elevated state and there we stayed; or at least, I certainly did, and the cast and orchestra seemed to as well. In fact it just got better. Every element in place, with the brilliance of each seeming to feed off — and feed into — every other. Dynamite, just like the advance publicity promised, and long before Betty had struck her match. I found myself drawn to the edge of my seat, I found my jaw dropping — cliché after cliché, but all of them true — and I cried more than once, which hasn't happened before in this season. I also just about lost it with laughter during the argument between Harry and Johnny, something which has never happened to me in the Opera Theatre before, though it's happened a few times at the Con. (One of the best things about sitting near the stage for Bliss is getting to hear the ad-libbed insults which Peter and Kanen throw at each other as Johnny chases Harry around the stage. Comedy gold.)

Now I will return to Harry shortly. But it seems a convenient moment to dwell a little longer on the frankly stunning supporting performances in this opera than  in my printed reviews, where word limits obliged me to rush through them in half-sentences so that Peter could have a paragraph. 

I'm not sure I can adequately express the ferocious wonder that is Merlyn Quaife's Betty Joy. Until now I'd known Merlyn only by her formidable reputation and had never heard her sing. Let's just say she lives up to that reputation, and then some. Her role is quite insanely written, really, and yet she tackles it with fearlessness and ruthless agility, and eventually unearths a complexity — beauty, even? — in this hard-to-love woman which makes her hellish end as poignant as it is poetically just. (And may I just say how much I adore the wordless scene in which the police arrive to tell Lucy and David what has happened. Hats were never more movingly removed, nor a revolve more perfectly utilised. Neil Armfield, I love you.)

Lorina Gore is just irresistible as Honey B. She's as loveable as Betty isn't. And while the role might be written around a prettier, sweeter voice, it's still exceptionally challenging in terms of the tessitura and coloratura facility it draws upon. Lorina handles all that gorgeously, though, and last night's was the most gorgeous of all. Her stunning, mezza voce "I don't come from anywhere" was responsible for my first tears of the evening (actually, my first of the season now I think of it), and her "Ah Harry, my Harry" had a rawness and depth of feeling it's not quite reached before. 

I need also to rave about both Taryn Fiebig and David Corcoran. As far as I'm concerned, this is the best thing I've ever seen or heard Taryn do. She is in fabulous voice, she captures both Lucy's schoolgirlishness and her very real pain, and she is utterly heartbreaking in her final confrontation with her father — "Stay! Please! Stay!" — I'm welling up just thinking about it. David, meanwhile, just knocks me over afresh with every performance. The vitality, commitment and tonal brilliance of his singing are very special indeed, and it's really quite strange to see his name in the back of the program as a Young Artist when his artistry seems so fully formed. He is a treasure, and provided the company treats him properly, I think he's just going to keep getting better. I can't say enough in praise of his performance here.

Forgive me if I slip back into one-singer-one-sentence mode now, it's the only way to keep this post from growing longer than Amanda Holden's libretto. I think my first plaudit has to go to Kanen Breen. I love his American accent. It's like listening to a golden-age Broadway musical. (That's praise.) It's also quite honestly some of the most beautiful singing I've ever heard from him: "I am redundant" in particular sits perfectly in his voice. And I think Shane Lowrencev is just quietly pulling off a bit of a tour de force in his three roles, particularly as they're so diverse. He's outstanding (and hilarious) as Reverend Des and one of the policemen, but it's the eerie soulfulness he brings to Nurse which really gets to me, and which makes that my favourite of his roles. Stephen Smith is a delight in his two roles: particularly as the other police officer, with his coloratura flashes and slick, vaguely creepy demeanour. And he does kind of look as if he were born to wear that uniform.

And Barry Ryan! He's just as right as Alex. I love the slightly childish quality he brings to him — you see it when Harry pushes him around in his office chair, during his drunken tantrum at the Hilton, and then above all in the asylum. The Harry/Alex duet is still one of my absolute favourite parts of the opera — last night I was practically dancing in my seat to it — and I also love the way he delivers the lines "It's my punishment...For what we do here." Henry Choo's two roles have both grown on me, but particularly Aldo, the Italian waiter who sings about cancer. I didn't love it the first time, but his little aria has crawled inside my head now and I've changed my mind. There's something somehow spooky about him. 

The all-encompassing fabulousness of last night's performance improved Milijana Nikolic's Mrs Dalton as well, her monologue more intelligible and pointed than ever — and she certainly does cut an extraordinary figure in those heels and that wig. Teresa La Rocca and Jane Parkin are excellent in their very brief appearance as the two nurses (who scope out in minutes all the truths to which Harry has been oblivious for two decades). I'm especially taken with Jane, whose diction and charisma augur very well indeed — can't wait to see her in something more substantial, now that she's a Young Artist. Malcolm Ede is good fun as both Harry's Neighbour and the doctor who comes to take Harry away and ends up with Alex instead. 

About the chorus, all I can do is state the obvious. They're exemplary. Of course they are. That's what they do. They deserve medals for the asylum scene, with extra stars for the boys in the boardroom. Particularly Margaret Plummer for her valiantly loony "O for the wings of a dove" and Sam Roberts-Smith for his fantastic broad accent ("So close to the product!"). The orchestra is magic too, and particularly so last night. We love you, Elgar Howarth. If only this one had been the radio broadcast.

And then there's Peter. From the outset his Harry was an extraordinary creation and has become more so with each performance. Last night, though, was not just the next step in that process. It was beyond that. He took possession of Harry, Harry took possession of him. Every facet of his performance seemed first to fall into place and then to rise up and form something better and fierier than just A Sterling Performance. Magic is what it was, I suppose. This was his funniest, most vivid, most complex, most outrageous and most ultimately moving Harry yet, sung with searing beauty and exquisitely characterised. Unless by some miracle closing night outdoes it — and you never know, it might — this will be the Harry who hangs around in my head for years to come. Pure Joy.

A Night of Eighties Bliss

Thursday evening's performance of Bliss was also the occasion of another much-awaited event, namely The Mad Scene's Eighties Night. It was a brilliant night, during which we not only flaunted our fabulous costumes, but also met both the composer and the leading man. So naturally there are more photos than just the above. I've already posted the album on the Mad Scene profile, but since I know there are some of you who can't (or won't) do Facebook, I've now put them on Flickr as well. You'll find the album here. Enjoy!

Mitigated Bliss

There's been a fair bit of comment around the internets regarding Amanda Holden's libretto for Bliss. More negative than positive, perhaps, but I'd say that's pretty standard for a libretto. If you hate it, you say something. If you like it, it becomes enfolded in the music and you probably don't need to make much comment on it unless pressed. I tend to think unobtrusiveness is just as admirable a quality for a libretto as mindblowing poetry, maybe more so, since it's arguably less subjective.

Anyway, I wouldn't exactly call Amanda Holden's libretto unobtrusive, but I do think that it's very much at the service of music and story, and in that respect, I like it quite a lot. Others have taken issue with the quality of its poetry, but I haven't their concerns. Admittedly, there are some infelicities, but I think these are mostly the product of pounding Carey's vast plotlines into such compact form. Take Harry's and Honey's romance, for instance. A century or two ago, this might have been given the entire opera to develop, and it has  far ampler space in the novel. Here,  though, there's a lot of other stuff going on, and it has to be squeezed into a few quick scenes, which means complex feelings must be voiced in a very concise — and thus potentially rather trite — manner. I don't think "Usually I don't feel a thing, but with you it's different" is a hugely satisfying reduction of Honey's whole complicated awakening by Harry, but what can you do? There's not really room for much more. "Come and find me, I shall be waiting/then life will have meaning" is a bit syrupy for my tastes, too, but it is actually true, and with so little space, telling trumps showing. 

For the most part, though, I like the way Holden has written this libretto. It wouldn't play well as spoken dialogue, but that for me is a point in its favour. A couple of years ago, I spent a lot of time (too much, really) comparing Philip Littell's libretto for Previn's A Streetcar Named Desire with the play. Now there's a libretto that would work as spoken dialogue, because it's basically just an abridged version of the play, with a few long passages worked in to resemble arias. I don't, however, think it sings very well. Amanda Holden's words do sing. They read, even in recitative, like words waiting for music: there's a heightened, poetic and faintly rhythmic quality to even the most mundane utterances, which, while your mileage may well vary, is exactly what I like in a libretto, even a clumsy one. (Which this isn't.)

If I do have a bone to pick, it's not with the style but with the structure. Yet even this feels pretty unfair, because turning this tangled, tangential web of a novel into twelve punchy scenes must have been (sorry) a Hell of a job, and Holden really has done a pretty spectacular job of it. There are just some scenes which I feel suffer from having been so very streamlined, where so much of the novel's background and explanation has been stripped away that the sense of some actions is somewhat lost. There are scenes, and aspects of character, which I have the feeling only make sense to me because I can fill in the gaps from the novel. Alex's secretly rewritten reports, Betty's New York fixation, Harry's "Ballad of Little Titch" — I'm not sure how well I'd process these if I'd come to the opera cold, and I wonder whether some of this stuff (I'm thinking of Titch in particular) might have been retained more for its musical possibilities than its dramatic necessity.

And yet, you know, it's funny. I started this post — and particularly the last paragraph — expecting to ramble on this subject for a while, but as I sit here and go over the opera in my head, and re-read the libretto (huge thumbs up to Opera Australia for including it in the program, by the way), I'm finding less and less to pick at. It ain't flawless, but the longer I sit with it, the smaller its flaws seem. That doesn't mean they should be ignored, and I imagine there's editing to be done before this opera reaches its last-absolutely-the-last-final-full-stop form, but nor are they its undoing. More importantly — and much more subjectively — I'm discovering such affection for this opera that I just can't bring myself to dwell on even reasonable criticisms. There were scenes I had every intention of pulling apart, but doing so means re-living them, and when I do that, it's not the faults but the delights which come back in strongest focus. 

Maybe that's a bit of a cop-out. But it's also, at least within my own little world, a good sign for Bliss. It means I'm getting attached. There aren't many perfect operas, and even the ones you think are perfect have probably been hauled over the coals by somebody else at some point. The real question is whether you treat the imperfections with scorn or affection, irritation or indulgence — and the longer I spend with Bliss, the more irresistibly I veer towards the latter. 

Twice the Bliss

Since I (and the cast, obviously) are only about twelve hours from a third Bliss, I do want to say just a few words about the second. In fact all that really needs to be said is that it did exactly what I had hoped and expected it would, which was to improve and deepen in pretty much every respect. Everything and everyone seemed just a bit freer, more at home, and more alive, which is hardly surprising. (It's also convenient, since this was the one that was filmed and broadcast.) 

As I tweeted at the time, opening night was opening night, but performance #2 was where I think Bliss really began. In particular, Peter Coleman-Wright, extraordinary as he was on opening night, inhabited Harry even more fully — and with even greater warmth — the second time around. My sitting even closer (front row this time) may have helped too. I also found the dramatic progression of it far more satisfying on a second viewing; I felt far less mired in the baggage of the novel, and better able to appreciate the opera as a separate and different creation. It definitely helps to know the contours of the piece as a whole right from the start; one can begin to measure the show against itself, rather than its sources. 

Very much looking forward to tomorrow's matinée. I've started finding myself humming tiny snippets — "you can't beat 'em so join 'em", "Charybdis", "Ah, Harry, my Harry" — which must be a good sign, and which makes me even hungrier to hear the whole thing again. Besides, there are aspects I want to write about, but which need at least one more viewing before I feel I can do so. The libretto, for instance, and Harry himself. And of course, the post I'm having the most difficulty holding back, which is the obligatory Why Peter Coleman-Wright Is So Impossibly Wonderful post. It will come. I'm just collecting as many reasons as possible. See you tomorrow, perhaps.

(PS Note that Pathways to Bliss has been updated with links to the ABC2 broadcast on iView, and to parts 2 and 3 of Kanen Breen's video diary.)

Pazza di Aroldo

People don't really do insertion arias these days, but if Lorina Gore, or any subsequent Honey B, ever feels she'd like something more to sing, I have a suggestion. (The staging's quite well suited too, although the costumes would need to be updated.)
 

Seriously, I'm amazed that not a single review or article about Bliss has worked this song into its headline. 

Pathways to Bliss

OK. After last night's funny little review-that-wasn't, here's something more matter of fact. A Bliss linkfest. I'll try to keep updating and re-posting it as additions surface.

Background | True history of the Bliss gang (The Australian/Matthew Westwood | A Joy in hell as Bliss hits the stage [includes photos & audio] (ABC Local/Matthew Perkins) | A long-delayed Bliss is fulfilled at last (Sydney Morning Herald/Bryce Hallett) |  Blissful awakening (The Age/Michael Shmith) | Opera Australia hopes for happiness (Sydney Morning Herald/Bryce Hallett) | Bliss brings Aussie accent to opera (Nine News/Alyssa Braithwaite) | Opera-lovers embrace tree-hugger [includes video] (The Australian/Matthew Westwood 

Interviews | Brett Dean on the Music Show  [radio]| Brett Dean with Margaret Throsby [radio] | Brett Dean with David Allenby [print] | Brett Dean with Time Out Sydney | Peter Coleman-Wright on the Music Show [radio] | Brett Dean, Neil Armfield, Peter Coleman-Wright, David Corcoran and Alice Babidge, all in Allerta! | Barry Ryan with me [right here on this blog]

Reviews | Blissful performances on anti-hero's journey (Sydney Morning Herald/Peter McCallum) | Compelling mutation of a Peter Carey masterwork (The Australian/Murray Black) | Long live Bliss - a joy forever (The Age/Michael Shmith) | Bliss (The Stage/Jeremy Eccles) | Bliss has the potential to go far (The Opera Critic/Yours truly) | Bliss - Opera Australia (Adelaide Now/Peter Burdon)

Photos | Photo essays by Bridget Elliot (Australian Music Centre) | Sydney Morning Herald | AAP Image 

Video | Kanen Breen's rehearsal video diary Part One, Part Two, Part Three | Taryn Fiebig | ABC News | Hitler Misses Bliss | And the ABC2 broadcast is available in full on iView until the end of the month.

Social networking | The #donotmissBliss Twitter campaign continues | Lots of discussion happening at The Mad Scene | Not to mention Eighties Night! | And oh dear ... look who's inspired a Facebook fan group

Meta-Bliss

It's fair to say I will never be Peter McCallum. Peter McCallum, who not only wrestles the hugeness of the Bliss experience into 472 words, but does so quickly enough for the review to appear within 12 hours of the standing ovations it recounts. Speed and conciseness, funnily enough, were my claims to fame during high school and university. Nowadays, though, when I'm writing about opera, instead of thrusting a Marxist analysis upon poor Heathcliff (not my idea) or working Catherine Deneuve into yet another French writing assignment (that was my idea), everything seems to stretch out and complicate itself. 

The first person pronoun may never make an appearance, but my reviews are nevertheless very personal pieces of writing, and as such, much harder than academic discussion to extract from my temple and arrange on the virtual page. I always hope that while I sleep, elves will do the work for me, but this never happens. It is always a challenge. 

And the greater the experience, the greater the challenge, which is why reviewing Bliss this weekend proved somewhat harrowing. Normal sleep patterns were abandoned, copious Coke Zero was consumed, frustration at the futility of words in the face of music was expressed on several occasions, and the passive voice, as you see, was not always conquered. In the end, I got there. I inevitably do, but at the outset — as I stare at the screen, hoping to snatch from the air an introductory thought with paragraph potential — completion doesn't feel very inevitable at all.

Why I am I telling you all this? I'm telling you because, having just drained myself of description, praise and analysis for this strange and wonderful work with which I might just be falling in love, there's no way I can do it again so soon — and even if I were up to it, I don't think it's the best idea. I'm about to go on a journey with Bliss. I've booked for every performance. And since I've almost never attended a second — or tenth — performance of any opera without wishing to amend my initial review, it's reasonable to assume that Bliss, which is so new, so toweringly complex and which has so many directions in which to develop, will elicit a fair few words from me over the next three weeks.

So that's how I'm going to blog Bliss. Not as one big capital-R Review, trailing addenda, but as all the words — however long, and whatever their shape — this season sends spinning out of me. I hope you'll join me for the ride, both here in computerland and above all in the theatre. To quote  Amanda Holden's libretto, there is massive turbulence ahead. But it's gorgeous, thrilling turbulence, and I plan to revel in its every tremor. If I can't do that in 472 words, then so be it.

The beginning

It is easy to think of tonight's world première of Bliss as a sort of finishing line now crossed. For ten years the opera has been inching its way toward this very point, and now, at last, here it is. Mission accomplished. Except not. The gestation might be over with, but that's only one phase of existence anyway. Now this fascinating operatic baby has been born, and what we have is not an end, but a beginning. 

And as beginnings go, this was an auspicious one. Brett Dean's first opera is rich, complex, mesmerising, intriguing and downright beautiful. (Conventional and unconventional beauty shoulder to shoulder.) The creative forces assembled to bring it to life all live up to their formidable reputations. Artistry, bravery, imagination, affection and wit abound. 

Is it fully formed and perfectly polished yet? No. Is that a problem? Absolutely not. It's a privilege for us to see that formation happen before our eyes — to watch our newborn opera take its first steps and carve out its own very special life. Bliss as it was tonight was a strong and beautiful thing; the Bliss which will grow through this season, and another, and another,  and so on and so on, will be stronger and more beautiful still. I've booked for every Sydney performance, and I can't wait to see where this season goes, and where it takes me.

As for the specifics of tonight's performance, well, now is not the time. They'll come, thick, fast and florid, both here and in my published reviews. All I'll say right now, because it cannot go another minute unsaid, is that Peter Coleman-Wright has achieved — is achieving — something extraordinary as Harry Joy. He is the mad, virtuosic, yet disarmingly self-effacing centre of everything, and his voice and presence are just as luminous as his white suits. 

It's been tweeted so often that maybe it's lost its lustre, but after tonight, it holds truer than ever. Do not miss Bliss. 

Barry on Bliss

Baritone Barry Ryan sings the role of Alex Duval in Brett Dean's Bliss, which as we are all no doubt keenly aware, opens at the Sydney Opera House tomorrow night. He very kindly took the time to answer a few questions about his part in this unmissable (#donotmissBliss!) operatic event. 

Barry Ryan as Alex Duval in Bliss. (Photo: Branco Gaica)

How long ago did you become involved with Bliss? Were you a part of the workshopping process or did you come on board once the opera was fully formed?

I came on board about halfway though the process, after the initial workshop had been done but before it got fully underway.

 Everyone seems to agree that Brett Dean's music for Bliss is fairly challenging. How did you go about learning the role? Are there particular vocal challenges in Brett's writing for Alex? 

With any modern work there are challenges, mainly because nobody’s done the work before and there’s nothing for us to use as a point of reference. With traditional repertoire there are recordings, DVDs, etc from which you can select aspects of a performance and character that appeal, and work from there in developing your own approach. So this has been ground breaking in that way, working without a precedent.

The role is very vocally challenging, and incredibly high for a lyric baritone. However as I’ve sung tenor before, this helped. There are a lot of top A naturals in the duet with Peter Coleman-Wright, which you would not usually find in the repertoire for a lyric baritone. So this was one of the big challenges.

My preparation has been really just about practising hard, trying things out and finding what works and what doesn’t. For example, I’d play around with my vowel sounds to find out what needs to be in the phrase before the really high notes, to help me get there. So it’s really ‘trial and error’, but very exciting discovering new ways of doing things!

For those who might be unfamiliar with the novel, can you tell us a bit about the character of Alex Duval, and how he fits into Harry Joy's saga? 

Alex is one of Harry’s friends – well, as much of a ‘friend’ as Harry has, as I don’t think he really has real, close friends. He’s a colleague, someone with whom he has mutual respect. A lot of respect really, to the point where he undergoes a metamorphosis and thinks he is Harry. I see him as slightly sycophantic to Harry – he puts him on a pedestal but when Harry starts to undergo drastic changes of his own, Alex is shocked and thrown by these.

Alex is an unusual character and not the most immediately sympathetic. What is he like to play? Is that where Neil Armfield comes in? 

Neil’s effect on a production and a character is really unique. I’ve worked with him several times and he’s a fantastic director. He doesn’t force you to do your role in a way that’s not already in you – he can see the essence of the character in you and then he tries to draw out. With a minimum of fuss too – in fact you don’t know its happening but then you think "hang on a minute I didn’t realize I was going this way" but you realize Neil has drawn something out of you that you didn’t even realize was there. He helps you find the character within you, rather than form it.

This isn't your first time premiering a new Australian work. Is there a particular approach you take to preparing for a work like this, as opposed to an established repertory piece?

Having no point of reference, you’re really inventing everything for the first time – it’s exciting and pretty bloody scary! Because you’re also conscious that when people do it again, they will use your own performance as their point of reference – and they might think it’s awful! But that’s the major difference -  inventing new a character, a new vocal perspective for the character.

Bliss has been a long time in the making. Are there specific pressures that come with finally bringing such a long-awaited work to the stage? What has the atmosphere in rehearsals been like, particularly as opening night draws nearer?

Absolutely there are big pressures. There is a global expectation - not just an Australian one – for Bliss to be big and we’ve really all felt that. There’s already the Edinburgh Festival ahead, and then the Hamburg production, so it’s a  hell of a pressure on everyone, but especially Brett and Amanda. 

In a way, I feel we’re responsible for delivering Brett’s baby! I feel deeply I want to do my best for my own sense of achievement, of course, but I really want it to be a great success for HIM too. After the dress rehearsal he looked so elated, like he was thinking “wow this is going to work, and these guys can actually do this"! I saw the same look on his face after the initial vocal workshops, but once we put the books away we had to start again from scratch, and I’m sure at one point he must have wondered if it would really come together as well as he’d hoped. But after the final rehearsal, he knew we had it, and he had that happy look again!

A lot of new operas, in Australia and overseas, seem to disappear after they're premiered – it's hard for a new work to really take permanent hold in the repertoire. What are your hopes/predictions for the future of Bliss?

My hopes are of course that it will go on to be performed at The Met and Vienna etc. I don’t think it’s impossible, but with modern works you just never know. With Batavia there were rumours of it going global, and that hasn’t yet come to fruition, though it deserves to. But I think with Brett’s reputation in Europe, the possibilities are huge. I think it will be a great success here, and I hope for big things internationally, but as for predictions, we’ll have to wait and see.

 Barry Ryan & Peter Coleman-Wright (Harry Joy) in Bliss. (Photo: Branco Gaica) 

#donotmissBliss: The Downfall Parody

Once I'd had the idea, I couldn't shake it. So here it is. (And if you're not familiar with the [slightly passé] phenomenon of the Downfall parody, here's a bit of background.) 

The Rise and Rise of #donotmissBliss

I love social networking. A week ago, @ElissaMilne and I started up the #donotmissBliss tag, and the mania just keeps on spreading. We haven't trended yet but all things considered, I think our humble hashtag is doing pretty darn well for itself. 

So I was especially thrilled on Tuesday to discover that Opera Australia (in the form of @OAPR) had come on board with the campaign — not just by using the tag, but by actually running a competition encouraging others to do likewise. Have a look at the @OAPR profile and you'll see the details — there's a double pass to Bliss up for grabs every day for a week. 

I'm so glad that OA is finally making a proper splash on Twitter, and of course very happy to have contributed to that splash. Even if sometimes I think I should also be tagging my tweets with #stillnotonthepayroll. (I kid. Labour of love, goodness of my heart, etc etc.)

And meanwhile, Bliss and #donotmissBliss seem to be bringing out the artist in everyone. First there was Alex's poem, and now another friend of mine — known to you as the creator of John Wegner is awesome and of the Bliss Pie — has also been moved to burst into verse. Here's her #donotmissBliss limerick:

I'm not OA's new ticket flogger
But this serves as a memory jogger:
    I'll remind you of this --
    Please #donotmissBliss
(And so agrees prima-* the blogger.)

[*lamusica. But then it wouldn't scan.]

To which I can add nothing but my agreement. Do not miss Bliss.

Blissmania!

Bliss! It's a multimedia sensation! You know about Bliss, the novel and Bliss the film, and of course you know about Bliss, the opera. But do you know about...

...Bliss, the Twitter hashtag
It all started with @ElissaMilne, who thought my tweet about my opening night dress meant the opera had already opened. Panicking, she tagged her tweet with "#donotmissBliss". I said it deserved to be a trending topic, and a campaign was born. A number of us are now using this hashtag as frequently (and creatively!) as we can. We haven't got it trending yet but we're having a brilliant time trying, so if you're the tweeting type, please join in. Brainless memes and Justin Bieber (who?) are hard to displace, it's true, but how thrilling would it be if we actually made it happen? And even if we don't trend, I'm sure you'll agree that encouraging people not to miss Bliss is a massively worthy aim. 

...Bliss, the orchestral suite
I've linked to this before, but it bears repeating. You can listen online here to Brett Dean's Moments of Bliss, an orchestral suite drawn from the opera. At the Bliss symposium last Sunday, Brett said that while the suite doesn't necessarily appear in "great slabs", almost every bar of it has made it into the finished opera — so it's a nice way to whet your appetite.

...Bliss, the radio interview
Andrew Ford's very recent interview with Peter Coleman-Wright is a very engaging introduction to both the plot and the music of Bliss. It also includes a snippet of Moments, but perhaps even more interesting is the brief snippet included from Songs of Joy, in which we hear Harry Joy describing his vision of Heaven and Hell. Check out that falsetto!

...Bliss, the poem
Alex, proprietrix of The View From C Reserve, has written a marvellous poem in support of the above-mentioned Twitter campaign. With her permission, I reproduce it here: 

I don't have Twitter, but for crying out loud
#DONOTMISSBLISS!

If you miss Bliss,
You'll be seriously pissed,
And you'll boo and you'll hiss,
"What the hell is with this?"

Don't go get on the piss,
Get an earful of dis,
Go and BOOK NOW FOR BLISS:
Pete'll blow you a kiss.

It is not to be missed.
So, we'll see you at Bliss?

You can see why I've dubbed Alex The Mad Scene's Poet Laureate. (She's also just written a Peter CW inspired haiku which I absolutely love.)

...Bliss, the menu item
Maybe I shouldn't even admit to this one. A friend (and the creator of John Wegner is awesome, as it happens) came over on Friday night, bearing pie. The pie was compensation for the hideous movie we were then obliged to watch. But she asked me beforehand what picture I'd like onto the top of the pie, and naturally, since my mind has only one track, I said "Bliss!" Thus, The Bliss Pie. (Yes, it took me a moment too. But that's an elephant sitting on a car, with three honey bees hovering overhead.)

...Bliss, the costume party
I've already mentioned this, too, but let me encourage you yet again to dress up and come along to Bliss Eighties Night on March 25th. Come even if you don't want to dress up, it looks like being a very fun evening. 

...Bliss, the documentary
The ABC's Artscape will screen a documentary on March 16th entitled Making Opera Bliss, offering a behind-the-scenes process of this world premiere. Indeed, the documentary forms part of what they're calling a "Bliss-a-thon", allowing viewers to explore "the book, the film and finally the opera...on ABC1, ABC2 and the Arts Gateway".

...Bliss, the TV/cinema broadcast
Said Bliss-a-thon culminates in the live TV and cinema broadcast of Bliss on March 17th. If you can't be in the house (which is where I'll be!) then somewhere, somehow, there is a screen you can watch it on. And watch it you must. You don't need me to tell you that. 

...Bliss, the unmissable opera
This is what all the above, however loopy, comes down to — you have to go. Bliss is a significant happening in all kinds of ways. And besides, it's packed with such potential for wonderfulness — just look at the artistic forces involved! — that you'd have to be crazier than Harry at his craziest not to experience it for yourself. Once at least, and more if you can. Do not miss Bliss. And spread the word: #donotmissBliss.

Tosca Reconsidered

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Midsummer Night's Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Great Catch-Up, Part II: Sydney Festival

1. WINTERREISE

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

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

2. OEDIPUS REX/SYMPHONY OF PSALMS

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

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

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

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

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

3. CANDIDE

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

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

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

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

The Great Catch-Up, Part I: Manon

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bliss & Madness

One of the reasons we started The Mad Scene in the first place was to encourage themed costume nights at the opera — it's the sort of lunacy which works better in groups. So, now that the group is going strong (159 members and counting — will you be #160?) we've announced the first such evening. It's A Night of Eighties Bliss, a chance to don your best shoulder pads and sequins in honour of Brett Dean's Bliss. 

In theory it's a Mad Scene event, but since I know not all of you are Facebookishly inclined, consider this your invitation. Thursday 25th March is the date for your diary. We're not organising a group booking or anything like that, but it's worth noting that there are a lot of seats left for that performance in all reserves of Rows A-D. That's where my co-admin Simon and I will be, as well as at least a few other Mad Sceners, and we'd love for as many people as possible to join us — the more the merrier. 

And if you are Facebookishly inclined, you'll find all the event details here. We'll organise pre-show and interval gatherings closer to the night, so keep an eye on that page for further information. We'd appreciate it if you RSVP, too; it doesn't oblige you to come, but it does at least give us a rough idea of who to expect. 

Surprise

I just want to say a quickish word of thanks to Opera Australia for what has turned out to be a surprising and delightful January. When we saw the repertoire planned for this season, I think many of us rolled our eyes a bit at the familiarity of most of it. Certainly, on the face of it, a January of Tosca, Manon and La traviata does not exactly scream daring originality. And yet, our warhorses have turned out to be Trojan horses, too — harmlessly dull on the outside, but with excitement and fighting spirit lurking just beneath the surface.

In Tosca we've seen Christopher Alden play fast and loose with every one of the opera's traditions, and while his production has its detractors, it has also won a number of fans — myself included — and, if nothing else, has sparked lively and passionate discussion, which can only be a good thing. Besides, even those who loathed the staging would be hard pressed to find fault with the singing: this has been an exceedinly well sung Tosca, bringing out the best in its Australian singers (Rosario La Spina's, for instance, may just be his best performance yet, and John Wegner's Scarpia is not to be missed) and showcasing a brand new and brilliant import, the gorgeous Takesha Kizart. I think we've pretty much all fallen in love with Takesha. Word along the grapevine is that she'll be back at OA in the not-too-desperately-distant future — so let the fantasy casting begin! And let's hope Nicole Youl, who takes over the title role on Tuesday, can score a similar triumph.

Manon and La traviata haven't Tosca's shock appeal, but their traditionalism is in fact quite a nice contrast — three updates at once would really be a bit too much to take. Of the two stagings, I'd give the edge to Moshinsky's Traviata; both, however, paint a very pretty picture of Parisian excess, and both have sets which garner their own ovations. More importantly, though, both are so superbly cast that any longueurs in their staging are rendered more or less irrelevant. 

In Manon we have not just a sparkling heroine (Amelia Farrugia) but a trio of absolutely outstanding men — Stephen Bennett, José Carbo and Julian Gavin. Julian in particular is winning hearts and blowing minds with every performance, and (as if that weren't enough) proved in last night's Candide that he's just as talented at comedy. La traviata offers a similarly starry array: Elvira Fatykhova, Aldo Di Toro and Jonathan Summers, any one of whom would be drawcard enough on their own. And all three operas offer excellent supporting casts as well: Warwick Fyfe, Sian Pendry, Kanen Breen, Richard Anderson, Luke Gabbedy, Graeme Macfarlane and many many others are all offering strong, characterful support. Those in Tosca deserve special mention, I think, for so convincingly embodying Alden's completely new (and enlarged) conceptions of their usually smallish roles; and let's not forget either the exceptionally luxurious casting of the ladies of fashion — Amy Wilkinson, Taryn Fiebig and Jacqui Dark are a hard trio to beat. 

In the next two months, things get slightly less mainstream, with Britten's A Midsummer Night's Dream opening in February, and the world première of Brett Dean's Bliss in March. I can't deny that I welcome the change of pace. Nevertheless, I'm delighted by the surprising turn this January has taken. Conservative it may well be, but dull it surely ain't, and while my bank account — which thought that this repertoire, combined with Cheryl's withdrawal from Tosca, would be its salvation — is less than pleased, I'm really rather pleased with it all. I still wouldn't say no to a season of nothing but Janacek, Poulenc and Strauss; but here in the real world, where we must have Stuff That Sells, this is surely the way to do it.

La traviata

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Various

I haven't done one of these for a while — you can thank Twitter for that — but it seems vaguely warranted, since I'm having one of those phases of too much to see and too little time to write about it.

• The Manon I had planned for this evening didn't eventuate — it all just got too difficult — so the proper post I hope to write about it will have to wait. Not that I imagine anyone's desperately hanging out for it, but for my own peace of mind, I like to get these things written up. Eventually. And I will see it again, if for no other reason than the second half of this Mad Scene discussion.
  
• Opening night of La traviata was predictably successful; a lovely evening of excellent singing and visual overload. I might love the production less if the cast were less effective; but here, cast and staging complement each other very nicely, and the result, while hardly revelatory, is nevertheless far from dull. 
  
• Besides, this La traviata has Aldo Di Toro as Alfredo, a performance I'm hopelessly in love with. You just have to hear him. 
  
• Speaking of tenors, I feel I owe Rosario La Spina yet another word of praise. I went to the matinée of Tosca today — my third performance so far — and he was still sounding excellent, and still doing the best work I've seen from him. I don't know if it's I or he who has changed — or a bit of both, or just the repertoire — but I hope it's permanent. I could get used to Rosario giving performances like this.
  
• What is it with me and tenors at the moment?
  
• Not just tenors, though. Today's Tosca was further confirmation that every time I see this opera (and this staging) it belongs even more to Scarpia. John Wegner is amazing. This afternoon I even stood for him.
  
• I also stood for Takesha. Until a dessicated old man behind me poked me in the back and ordered me to sit down and stop blocking his view. I don't know about you, but I really don't consider this appropriate behaviour. I wimped out and sat down again, but I'm regretting it now, and if I find myself in his vicinity again, I might be tempted to stand just for the sake of it. 

Nel tuo friends network s'annida Scarpia

It was only a matter of time. Floria Tosca and Vitellio Scarpia — and their complicated relationship — made their début on Facebook this week. So if, like me, you can't get enough of Tosca — and you share my love of opera geekery — you might like to stop by their profiles and follow their exploits. You'll find Tosca here, and Scarpia here. And for those not Facebookishly inclined (I know there are a few of you) here are a few snippets of the geekish fun. (Click thumbnail to view.)

  

And because some truths are so universal that they bring together even sworn enemies, you'll also find Vitellio and Floria as co-admins of an admirable Facebook group called John Wegner is awesome. If you agree with that sentiment (and who wouldn't?) then you might consider joining. 

Pas ce soir, Manon

I'm sorry, Manon. I'm not really ignoring you. I'm just hopeless and lazy and too easily distracted. A bit like you, really, if you don't mind my saying so. So perhaps you'll forgive me. 

I did mean to blog Manon nice and promptly after opening night on Friday, but somehow, it just hasn't happened. And while theoretically I could produce something substantial now, I don't think I should. Manon, for all its charms, is not an opera which leaves an especially deep impression upon me, and at this distance, I fear anything detailed I attempted tonight would be little more than a pale rewrite of the review I wrote immediately afterwards. But I'm going back on Saturday. And since it's my natural tendency to doubt my own first impressions of a show — and to leave the second performance wanting to completely revise everything I wrote about the first — it seems logical now to wait until then to give this Manon the blogging it deserves. 

In the meantime, the one thing I should say about Manon right now is that it is worth seeing for Julian Gavin's performance alone. And for the combination of Julian, José Carbo and Stephen Bennett, it's worth seeing more than once — which is exactly why I'm going back. Amelia Farrugia is lovely too, by the way; but it's the male cast which really distinguishes this Manon — and coming from a sopranophile like moi, you know that's saying something. 

The director speaks

I managed — not without pain — to resist tonight's Tosca. I did, however, have my spies in the audience, one of whom has very kindly scanned and sent me this. It's a note from director Christopher Alden which had been printed on the back of tonight's cast sheets. 

 

It's worth noting that this note does not appear in the program, and that it's been printed in a space usually reserved for advertising, which suggests this may be a hurried attempt by the company to help out those especially bewildered by the production, presumably in the hope that with better comprehension will come fuller appreciation and slightly less outrage. 

I'm a bit surprised they felt the need to do this. Alden's production isn't that hard to grasp, is it? I'd have thought it was more a question of what people think of it once they've grasped it. And I can't see those who fundamentally object to the update being much swayed by such a note. It's hardly revelatory, anyway; most of what Alden says ought to be fairly clear just from watching the show. Still, if this note does help some people to engage more fully with the production than they might otherwise have done, then I suppose it's a good idea. It just remains to be seen whether it's to be handed out at every subsequent show — that's a lot of ad space to sacrifice. 

Toscaddenda

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tosca

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Opening night

(It's a poor photo, but this sign, seen at last night's Tosca, reads "Warning: This production contains adult themes and explicit scenes which some patrons might find confronting.")
Confronting is the right word. This new Tosca won't be for everybody. I don't think it should be anybody's first experience with the opera. But if you know the opera and you're ready to have your preconceptions challenged, your sensibilities shaken, and your mind a little bit blown, then I think it's worth your while to be confronted by Christopher Alden's production. It's a gutsy and thought-provoking take on the opera. I won't say every aspect of it succeeds: there are some wild improbabilities and some questionable decisions. As a whole, however, it is horrific (in a good way) and quite powerful. At least, I found it so. Not everybody will, and fair enough. 

The singing is also pretty fantastic, and so too, for all its limitations, is the orchestra. And after all, it is a superbly well written opera — no director, however radical, could make the Act One Te Deum anything other than extraordinary. The opening night audience was wildly enthusiastic for maestro Licata when he returned for the second act, and likewise for the whole cast at the curtain call. Débuting soprano Takesha Meshé Kizart received a substantial standing ovation; Alden was met with a mix of appreciative whistles and boos. That's good, I think. It shows we still care. The house looked full at 7.30 and, to my surprise, just as full after the single interval. 

I have to review the show for The Opera Critic and NZ Opera News now, but once that's done, I'll be back here with (much) more to say.

Before the fact

You would think that the sudden withdrawal of Cheryl Barker from a role I have longed to hear her sing would devastate me completely. Had you dangled that prospect in front of me a few months ago — had you taunted me and said "perhaps she won't sing it" — I might have considered that to be, within a certain sphere of my existence, one of the worst possible things that could happen to me. And then it happened. Did I collapse, did I cry, did I rend my garments? None of the above. It was actually OK. Heaven knows I am far from a rational being when it comes to opera, to sopranos, to Cheryl; and yet, some sensible angel above my shoulder intervened and said: you know what? It's just a role. It's not the end of the world. You'll hear her sing plenty of other things in future; and besides, you've already been spoilt rotten.

So I coped, and continued to cope, and now here we are, four hours away from opening night of a Tosca which will mark not only Opera Australia's first new production of the opera in thirty years, but also the Australian début of the American soprano Takesha Meshé Kizart. I have to hand it to the company; as last minute subsitutes go, this one is a real coup, and has, I think, gone a long way to comforting me (not to mention others not quite so attached) for the lack of Cheryl. Had Takesha been cast from the beginning, I would have been very excited to hear her; and believe it or not, even in this situation, I'm just as excited. Her presence and Cheryl's absence, while inextricably linked in practical terms, can and should be considered as separate facts — the latter unfortunate, yes, but the former entirely delightful.

Everybody knows the stories of audiences who've turned feral with rage upon discovering they'll be deprived of an indisposed diva. I've never had it in me to feel that sort of anger. Yes, I've been desperately disappointed on more than one occasion, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't upset me to have my hopes unexpectedly dashed in that way. But I could never be mad at the singer who cancelled, be it Cheryl or Rachelle Durkin or anybody else. For one thing, I trust — naively perhaps — that their reasons for doing so must be sound and just; and besides, for me, attachment to a particular singer comes hand in hand with a certain affection, so that the more disappointing a singer's cancellation is, the less able I am to reproach them for it. That's probably naive too, and again, not very rational; others, I'm sure, can attach themselves only to the talent and consider the person more objectively. I can't. Più docile sono, e dico di sì; I forgive.

Of course, this situation has an added dimension in the suggestion that Cheryl's departure may have been for artistic reasons; that some part of Alden's determinedly controversial vision sent her packing. Nothing has been publicly confirmed, but if it's the truth then my feeling is that this outcome, painful as it is, might well be for the best. If the situation proved untenable — if she was unable to be her usual extraordinary self — then I can understand, and even applaud, her decision to remove herself from it. I'd rather see her at her blazing best, or not at all; Cheryl and compromise don't go well together. Nor does my partiality prevent me from feeling that a production as radical and challenging as Alden's deserves to be headed up by a Tosca who supports its cause — which, if the Herald's Joyce Morgan is correct, may not have been true of Cheryl. I find it very hard to believe that this Tosca will be out-and-out rubbish, but doubtless there will be those who will disagree, and who will attack; better then, that star and director can present a united front. 

Listen. I can't deny for a second that in an ideal world, I'd be hours away from my first Cheryl Barker Tosca, or that I'd endure any kind of production — from the dustiest, most traditional to the most appallingly modern — just to hear her sing "Non so nulla". That, however, is clearly not what fate intended. Perhaps we might still have a chance to hear her Tosca here one day, and perhaps we won't. We do, however, have the chance to hear a new and exciting soprano in the role; we also have the chance to have our boats rocked a little (or a lot) by Christopher Alden. I might not be trembling but I'm still abuzz with anticipation to see — and hear — how it all turns out. 

In the news

Cheryl Barker's late-in-the-day withdrawal from Opera Australia's new production of  Tosca (which opens tomorrow night) has made this morning's  Sydney Morning Herald, with Joyce Morgan speculating about the reasons for her cancellation. And, in what some will no doubt consider the greater media coup, the story has also made it to Parterre.

Figaro news

As you may already have heard, Opera Australia announced this afternoon that its new production of Le nozze di Figaro, by débuting director Benedict Andrews, has been postponed until 2012 for financial reasons. Instead we'll see the same cast(s) in a revival of Neil Armfield's production. Press release runs as follows: 

Opera Australia today announced the postponement of Benedict Andrews' new production of The Marriage of Figaro which was to have been presented at the Sydney Opera House and the Arts Centre, Melbourne as part of the 2010 season. Opera Australia has given a commitment that Andrews' exciting new production will be presented in 2012.

The decision to postpone was taken because the cost of building a new production presented a financial risk that Opera Australia and its Board could not take at a time when it is working to recover from the impact of the global financial crisis.

It will be replaced by a revival of Neil Armfield's production of the same opera, where sets and costumes are already made. 

"Like many other companies around the world, we have had to review our program in the light of recent economic circumstances," said Chief Executive, Adrian Collette. "I am very sorry we have had to postpone Benedict Andrews' production of The Marriage of Figaro," said Mr Collette. 

"Given the difficult economic circumstances we have had to trade through for the past twelve months, we are simply not in a position to cash flow the manufacture of new sets and costumes for the production in 2010.  But we remain committed to realising Benedict's production in our 2012 season". 

Opera Australia was to have presented five new productions in 2010. "Of our other new productions, Bliss is already built, and Tosca, La sonnambula and The Girl of the Golden West are co-productions with other companies. These can all be presented as planned," he said. 

It's an unexpected but not entirely surprising decision, if you know what I mean. Not exactly a bombshell of Cheryl-Tosca magnitude, at any rate. The 2010 season is such a GFC sort of season anyway that one more concession to finances shouldn't really come as a shock. (Lucky for Adrian that he has the "it's a co-production" excuse for Tosca, though, or I'd be in Surry Hills picketing for them to keep Andrews and ditch Christopher Alden instead. But never mind.) 

And while I was reasonably curious to see Andrews's gated community Figaro, I'm far from dismayed that we'll be revisiting Armfield's production instead. I like the way it blends quirky modernism with eighteenth century trappings; and at the risk of sounding like a stuff I traditionalist I must say that after utterly modern productions of both Don Giovanni and Cosi fan tutte, it's a bit of a relief to think we're not losing our last bit of brocaded Mozart just yet. Evidently the company has committed to staging the new production in 2012. A lot can change in a couple of years, though. I can't help wondering whether the gated community concept will appeal as much to Andrews then as it does now; here's hoping this unexpected delay helps, rather than hinders, the development of his vision.

Anyway, the most appealing part of this Figaro was always the cast, and especially the marvellous array of baritones singing Figaro and the Count — two of my absolute favourites and others whom I like very much indeed, which means I'm probably going to see this Figaro more times than is either necessary or sensible. I whinge about the ubiquitousness of "Hai gia vinta la causa" in vocal competitions, but in context it's a very different matter, and I can't waiting to hear both Peter Coleman-Wright and José Carbo (be still, my beating baritone-heart) sink their teeth into it. I'm also particularly excited about Tiffany Speight's Susanna (and Taryn Fiebig's, if it's as lovely as her Sicle), Dominica Matthews's Cherubino and, above all, Jacqui Dark's Marcellina. It's nice as well to see that chorus member (and almost-millionaire) Clifford Plumpton will sing Antonio. 

Meanwhile, speaking of changes to the season, the one which hasn't had a press release is the announcement, at last of our Minnie for the new production of La fanciulla del West. Lisa Gasteen has already pulled out of the role by the time the 2010 season was launched, but it's taken until now for OA to announce, at long last, that she'll be replaced by Anke Hoeppner. I wholeheartedly applaud this decision — of the likely options, she's surely the most appealing, she's already sung in this production in Perth, and after saving the day in both Vec Makropulos and Fidelio, it's about time she was back on our stage in her own right. 

(Heart)Breaking News

Last night I was idly browsing the Opera Australia website (as I do) and discovered, much to my alarm, that Cheryl Barker's name had disappeared from both the cast list and the publicity blurb for the upcoming Sydney season of Tosca. I feared the worst, and this morning, I'm afraid I have to announce that my fears have been confirmed: Cheryl has indeed withdrawn from Tosca. 

From the OA press release:

Opera Australia announced today that Takesha Kizart, the acclaimed American soprano who performed the title role in the 2008 Opera North production of Tosca, will replace Cheryl Barker in the forthcoming Sydney Summer season. Miss Barker has withdrawn from the role for personal reasons. OA Artistic Director, Lyndon Terracini, said today: ‘Securing Takesha Kizart in this role is a real coup for the Company.  Whilst we are disappointed that Miss Barker will not be performing, we are excited that Miss Kizart has agreed to perform at such short notice’.

Kizart has been an acclaimed Tosca overseas and, as mentioned abve, has even sung in this same Alden production. So she knows her stuff, and I suspect we'll be quite thrilled when she makes her Australian début. But it's of course a massive shame not to have Cheryl. My own devastation you can well imagine — although at least I hadn't started booking my ten tickets yet — and I know I'm far from the only person who was very keenly anticipating Cheryl's Tosca. However, these things happen. "Personal reasons" covers a lot of ground and I do hope that all is well with our prima donna; Toscas are lovely but health and wellbeing are much more important.  

Single ticket sales open today. One can only hope the box office staff has been briefed and will warn those booking for Tosca of the change. As for me, I'd planned to celebrate the day with tickets for closing night — I think now I'll be booking for another Bliss instead.

You can read the full OA press release here [PDF] and further information about Takesha Kizart courtesy of Askonas Holt.

Intimations of bliss

Oh, opera, you're such a good influence on me. Generally speaking, my literary tastes don't extend much past 1960 — but with the world première of Brett Dean's Bliss edging ever closer and usual avenues of preparation unavailable, what else was a girl to do but to read the novel? 

Yes, if you're Australian, you probably don't need that incentive, because you've probably already read it, and/or have a definite opinion about Peter Carey. But I'm not Australian, and despite literally growing up in a bookshop, I'd never heard of Bliss until I heard about the opera. (I had heard of Peter Carey, though. I'm not a total philistine, honest.) I've also not seen the film, though I suppose I really must sometime between now and next March. Not that I necessarily think either book or film is absolutely vital to appreciating the opera — it ought to function as a work of art on its own terms, and I'm sure it will. In my case, though, I feel I'd like to replicate as far as I'm able the sort of popular consciousness of Bliss which so many Australians seem by definition to possess and which I, until recently did not.  

Would I ever have read Bliss otherwise? Perhaps one day, but quite possibly not. Am I pleased I've read it? You could say that. All I asked was to be prepared (fore-armed?) for the opera, and lo and behold, I found — let's not say bliss — true delight. I liked the humour, the complexity and sheer imagination of it. I liked Carey's ability to take you one way with a character, lull you into what seemed like understanding, then veer unexpectedly into pyschological territory you never saw coming. I liked those sudden switches from past to present to future, unheralded, and populated by pronouns not immediately explained, so that you're just lost enough to enjoy the tangle before it's pulled straight again. I liked the tree scene and the subsequent curse (now there's an aria straight from Verdi). I don't want to live in a commune, but I'm glad Harry did. I liked Harry, even though that first page description of his oversized moustache had me preparing to feel the opposite. And above all, I liked the style of Carey's prose. Novels live or die for me on the strength of their writing; the most riveting plot in the world can't hold me if the writing is unreadable. But I love the way Bliss is written; I find Carey's wry, rambling, chatty — then swiftly poetic — style incredibly engaging. 

What we can expect from Amanda Holden's libretto, I've no idea. What will be changed, removed, added, rearranged and rethought, only time will tell. (At least for those of us not privy to the years of development and workshopping this opera has gone through.) If it captures just a fraction of the lyricism and insanity and (I'm going to say it) sheer joy of the novel, though, then I'd say it's going to be at least a little bit special. Not to mention that all this bliss will be in the hands of Neil Armfield, with whom I suspect many of us are still smitten, post-Grimes.

With regards to the music, I'm even more in the dark. All I have is my imagination and Boosey & Hawkes, whose website holds a few tantalising hints. Like the entry for Dean's 2004 work Moments of Bliss, "a suite of four purely orchestral movements which will form the basis for several orchestral interludes throughout the opera". The composer's program notes on that page give a few intriguing, if fleeting, insights into the opera itself; then again, I'd imagine a lot can change in five years. The other highlight of this entry is the scoring of the suite, which is entertainment enough in itself:

4(IV=picc).3(III=corA).4(II=Ebcl,III=bcl,IV=dbcl).3(II=whirly tube,III=dbn)-4.3.3.1-timp.perc(4):I=vib/SD/sizzle cym/tgl/3gongs/7cowbells; II=lg tam-t/5tom-t/3bongos/5susp.cym(incl.1sizzle cym)/whip/marimba(shared with IV)/glass chimes/tamb/tuned gong/whirly tube; III=sm tam-t/xyl/glsp/SD/lion's roar/4t.bells/tuned gong; IV=BD/marimba/full drum kit/glsp/2tgl/1crot/tuned gong-2harp-elec.git-pft(=cel).MIDI kbd(using Ableton LIVE via Mac computer)-strings(16.14.12.10.8; pincipal 1st vln=elec.vln; 2vln/vla/vlc=whirly tube; 1 female 2nd vln="Wheel of Fortune"; all vlc/db require a medium soft timpani stick)

Lions and gongs and whirly tubes, oh my! 

Then there's the song cycle Songs of Joy, which was premiered last year by Peter Coleman-Wright with the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic under Sir Simon Rattle. According to one of the linked articles:

In the first song, Harry's Vision, the protagonist describes his journey through Heaven and Hell. The energetic Ballad of Little Titch is a tall story which Harry tells on his first time out after his convalescence. The final Sonnet is a serenade to the new love in Harry's life, after he abandons job and home to settle in the rainforest.

Strange to think all those Liverpudlians have heard these songs and we still haven't. My anticipation grows. I also note that one of the articles says that Peter "will take the lead role of the adman Harry Joy on stage in Australia, Germany and the UK" — we already know it's slated for the Edinburgh Festival, but Germany too? This bodes well. Our opera seems to have legs; and Peter can become to Harry Joy what Gerald Finley has to J. Robert Oppenheimer. 

Finally, there is the entry for the opera itself. A few hints, although nothing especially revelatory. A couple of characters have had names slightly changed: Joel has become Johnny, Adrian has become Nigel. The small chorus of "Managing directors" sounds like something out of G&S, don't you think? The synopsis is pretty straightforward and — warning — contains spoilers. Knowing the cast, I couldn't help but read the novel with those singers in my mind's eye — even though doing so led to a few traumatic moments — and while some were a bit hard to square with their characters, others seemed immediately like perfect casting. Barry Otto notwithstanding, Peter Coleman-Wright just is Harry Joy for me now, before I've even heard or seen him in even a fragment of the role. I'll even accept the oversized moustache, if I must. 

122 days and counting until opening night. Perhaps I'll start a countdown clock in the sidebar. I really can't wait.

Opera Australia 2010 Season

Opera Australia launched its 2010 season on Wednesday night. I gather subscribers received their booklets today. I am knee deep in media releases. So it's time to start talking. When I'll stop is anybody's guess.

It is, as has been pointed out, a very GFC sort of season: on the conservative side, with perhaps more than the usual number of moneyspinners. In a single season, we'll see Tosca, La traviata, Rigoletto AND Le nozze di Figaro — all perpetual favourites — not to mention a musical (A Little Night Music) and surely the most lucrative of the company's G&S productions, The Pirates of Penzance with Anthony Warlow doing his best Captain Jack Sparrow. But then again, there are surprises lurking beneath that conventional surface. Tosca and Figaro are both new, modernised productions with what looks like definite feather-ruffling potential; and Traviata and Rigoletto are familiar productions but very strongly cast. 

Maybe the feeling was that the presence of a brand new and much-hyped Australian opera was filled the risk-taking quotient on its own: certainly Brett Dean's Bliss is looking more exciting by the second. It's slightly disappointing, if not entirely surprising, to note that this season breaks two recent habits: at least as far back as 2006 (which is where my memory starts) the company has produced one baroque work and one Russian or Czech opera in every season, but the line-up for 2010 contains neither. Just quietly, I can live without the baroque for a year — Pinchgut fills that gap better anyway — but I hope that the absence of anything Slavic is a one-off. If Opera Australia doesn't give me a Katya Kabanova soon, I will have to consider drastic action. 

Casting seems mostly pretty solid, although there are a few headscratching choices, and evidence that Fiona Janes's concerns about the misuse of younger singers (whether or not to the detriment of their elders) were not unfounded. But there are also some very exciting prospects indeed, and a couple of promising imports. Not too many of the latter, though: this is a season full of familiar Australian names. 

It's not hard to see which singers the company has latched on to as its Future Stars, although it can sometimes be hard to see why. The established headliners, however, are out in force: we have good vehicles for Emma Matthews, Peter Coleman-Wright, Teddy Tahu Rhodes, Dennis O'Neill, Aldo di Toro and of course she whose name is bolded more times in the media releases than anyone else's, Cheryl Barker. Not too many scandalous absences, although there are a few from whom we might have liked a more substantial presence. Joshua Bloom appears in Melbourne only, much to my dismay and that, I suspect, of many other Sydneysiders. Jonathan Summers, who I think is one of this country's finest singing actors (of any voice type) will be a wonderful Giorgio Germont, of course, but I'd have loved to see him in an even more prominent role. There's nothing for the excellent Emma Pearson either, but I imagine that's just a matter of time. 

But others among my favourites have some juicy roles ahead: Shane Lowrencev as one of three Figaros, Lorina Gore as Honey B in Bliss (I'd have liked her as Susanna or Sophie too, but that's just being greedy, I suppose), Rachelle Durkin as both the Countess Almaviva and Britten's Tytania, and Catherine Carby as — swoon — Octavian. There's also a significant role début for a Young Artist, when the very promising David Corcoran takes over as the Duke of Mantua; and in the same production, David Parkin returns to sing Sparafucile, the role he sang when he won Operatunity Oz back in 2006, now with an ensemble contract and a prestigious scholarship under his belt — proof that TV talent show fame sometimes is the real thing.

And with all that (and much more) in mind, my top five picks are probably Bliss, Tosca, Midsummer Night's Dream, Der Rosenkavalier and La Sonnambula. Not necessarily in that order. Of course, this is all (well, some of it is) subject to change: there's always the possibility of something like Fidelio, which far exceeds my expectations. Although, let's be honest: not that much chance. As seasons go, this one's not exactly unpredictable. 

 Right. That's the short version. Now comes the play-by-play. Come with me if you dare...

Fidelio

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ahimè

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

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

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

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

Fidelio

Two problems in posting about opening night of Fidelio last night. One is that I have to leave for Manon Lescaut in about twenty minutes. The other is that I don't know where to begin. 

Should I start by expressing my extreme admiration for Elizabeth Stannard, who substituted at very short notice (she only got into town the previous day!) for Nicole Youl as Fidelio/Leonore, and managed so magnificently that, had there been no announcement, one could easily have believed she'd been the cast from the beginning? Should I start with the terrifically terrifying Peter Coleman-Wright, whose Don Pizarro is the stuff of the very best sort of nightmares and who is on his own quite enough reason to see this show? What about the gorgeous Lorina Gore as Marzelline or Stephen Smith as her irresistible Jaquino? Or maybe I should start with Julian Gavin whose clarion tenor was a wonder to behold? There's even Warwick Fyfe, for whom (as I have said before) somebody really needs to write an opera about Napoleon: he's the spitting image. And Conal Coad, who brings real heart to Rocco the jailer. Let's not forget the Opera Australia chorus, especially its men; or Jonathan Darlington's inspired leadership of the AOBO. And what about Cathy Dadd, who has managed to make a revival of a seventeen year old traditional production look like something newly and brilliantly conceived?

You see my dilemma. I was completely blown away by this show last night. Not just because it was so good, I suspect, but because it was not a show I expected to be so stunning. I was looking forward to it only in moderation, and lo and behold, it exceeded my every expectation. In terms of all round excellence, I'm quite happy to go out on a limb and declare this Fidelio the best show of the Winter Season so far, and, with Madama Butterfly* (and probably Peter Grimes to come) perhaps the best of the year. Twenty-four hours ago I couldn't have imagined saying such a thing; now I'm practically ready to shout it in the streets. See this show!

*oh, and Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk as well, obviously. 

Young Artist Final

A few more words about Opera Australia's Young Artist Program audition concert, although Bryce Hallett has already covered the nuts and bolts of it quite nicely in the Herald. I remain as conflicted as ever about whether and how much to write about competition situations, but a blanket ban would deny me the chance to heap praise, so I have to write something.

I love it when a competition goes the way I want it to. After the first round (one aria) each, I Tweeted Samuel Dundas and Nicole Car as my favourites; after round two, I added Jane Parkin, who was in principle my favourite from the beginning: I just wasn't sure whether she'd done herself justice in her first aria. 

The longer I sat and waited for the result, the more I felt and hoped that Jane would take the prize. I don't think she necessarily gave the most perfect performances on the night, but more than anybody else, she demonstrated that entry into the program was the obvious next step in her career — and that she had all the skills and raw (and not-so-raw!) material to benefit greatly from it. She also has a distinctive and interesting voice which can fill that problematic theatre. I also think she's just a fabulous performer and love to see a personal favourite of mine moving up in the world. Besides, whatever the difficulties of the Handel she began with (Alcina's "Ah, mio cor"), her "O marno to je" (I still think the world of her for choosing to make a signature piece of Rusalka's other aria) was abundant proof that she is the Real Thing. She gets extra kudos for making an entry at high speed in serious heels and launching into an aria which is, well, not exactly easy going. 

I was absolutely thrilled with Nicole Car. Not just because she sang so well, but because she was so much better than the last time I heard her, in the 2008 Mathy semi-finals. She sang "Non mi dir" in both competitions, and improvement was quite remarkable: no doubt something to do with the fact that she's sung Donna Anna (for Victorian Opera) in the interim. She came back with a gorgeous "Depuis le jour", such a contrast to her first aria in every sense, and it was lovely and just as characterful. If this is how far she's come in less than a year, then she's definitely a talent to be fostered. 

Samuel Dundas is one of those baritones — you know the type — who just exude star quality the moment they wander out on stage, and then manage to back it up with a real voice and musical sensitivity. He gave us a Mozart Standard — "Aprite un po' quegli occhi" — and managed to put his own hilarious spin on it, then came back with something utterly unexpected, a very Italian and melancholy aria from Puccini's Edgar, of all things, and somehow managed to pull that off brilliantly as well. He provided that crucial moment in any singing competition: the moment when you get to forget that it is a competition and just enjoy the performance. I also saw him as Arlecchino in Victorian Opera's Ariadne auf Naxos, where he sailed perilously close to stealing Zerbinetta's thunder. 

With a panel of five terribly distinguished and high-powered judges (Anthony Legge, Ian McCahon, Andrew Greene, Peter Coleman-Wright and Yvonne Kenny, for heaven's sake) the eight finalists are no doubt facing a vast quantity of detailed and genuinely useful criticism, so I'll refrain from adding any of my own to the pile and shall instead just list a few of the things that made me especially happy. First, well done to all three baritones (Samuel Dundas, Matthew Thomas and Hadleigh Adams) for contrasting their tried-and-true Mozart arias with interesting rarities: with selections from La jolie fille de Perth, Tito Manlio and Edgar on offer, I might even have forgiven a "Hai gia vinta la causa". Maxine Montgomery was just impossibly adorable as Frau Fluth in "Nun eilt herbei". I have real respect for Victoria Lambourn for beginning with an aria as delicate and exposed as Mignon's "Connais-tu le pays". And after a rather ordinary "Dies Bildnis", it was great to see Martin Buckingham let his hair down — literally and figuratively — for such a warm and genuine "De' miei bollenti spiriti". 

That will do. We already know the result. Jane Parkin and Samuel Dundas will enter the program next year, and Nicole Car will follow in 2011. Just as it should be. I was so excited by the result I may have made a slight spectacle of myself. Well done to all. 

Winners

The winners of tonight's final of the 2010 Opera Australia Young Artist auditions are as follows:

1. Jane Parkin

2. Samuel Dundas

3. Nicole Car (who will join the program in 2011)

I'll write a bit more when I get the chance, but for now let me just say that this was pretty much exactly the way I wanted and expected it to go. It had to be those three in some order, and the order chosen is spot on. I'm not at all surprised that the five judges came to a unanimous decision. And I'm so pleased about Jane. I've been determined for two years — since the first time I saw her — that she was one to watch, that she ought to be moved from the chorus into solo roles, and I'm delighted to see that coming to pass: first OzOpera and now this. It's all very good news.