Prima la musica, poi le parole

L'Ormindo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick

Typical. I whinge about not having any opera to blog about, then when I get some, I don't blog about it. I went to opening night of Pinchgut's L'Ormindo on Wednesday. I have no excuse for my failure to write anything about it. And I will post something, but since clearly it's going to be after the fact, let me now take this shamefully last-minute (tonight's is the last performance) opportunity to recommend that if you haven't already booked — and if you still can — then you probably should. It's so much fun. No flak jackets or machine guns, lots of comedy, one of the strongest casts I think they've ever fielded, and, as mentioned elsewhere, Kanen Breen in a dress (again). Fabulous production of a pretty fabulous (if rather odd) opera. More to come soon.

David et Jonathas II

It took me a while to realise just how rare David et Jonathas was, and still is. An aria from it appears on Patricia Petibon's disc of French baroque arias, so I'd always been vaguely aware of its existence, and I suppose that, had I thought about it, I'd just have assumed it was of roughly the same status and fame as some of the other operas represented on that recital: Armide, Les indes galantes and so on. Clearly, I would have been very wrong. It's only thanks to a bunch of my favourite musicians — people like William Christie (sigh) and Emmanuelle Haïm (double sigh) and, of course, our very own Pinchgut team — that anyone now living has ever even heard of — let alone heard — this opera in its entirety. And there are probably many more still who still haven't heard it. 

Well, poor them — but lucky us. I expounded in my last post about the special appeal of French baroque versus its English counterparts, so no need to repeat myself. I will, however, never tire of declaring my particular affection for this repertoire. I adore it. William Christie is mostly to blame for this, and it doesn't help that about half of my favourite singers in the world have passed through Les Arts Florissants at one time or another. And while Rameau has the largest share of my French baroque heart, there is plenty of room for les autres. Charpentier is definitely one of them, and all the more so since David et Jonathas. 

Let's face it. Even an atrociously sung or desperately boring and scholarly performance of this opera, in this city, would be some kind of special occasion — a curiosity, if nothing else, and worth seeing. But we have Pinchgut. And Pinchgut has Antony Walker, and The Orchestra of the Antipodes, and Cantillation, and a stable of seriously talented soloists. So instead of a mere curiosity, we have a drop dead gorgeous performance of a fabulous little musical treasure, one which would be met with delight in any city, anywhere. 

I loved the Orchestra of the Antipodes in Idomeneo and in last year's Juditha triumphans but it was at the opening night of D&J that I think I fell properly in love. With the house lights down and a crumbling baroque-ish set behind them, I thought: you know what? Don't worry about the singing. This will do me. And it would have done, but the singing was also pretty magical. 

Cantillation were fabulous. They always are, but I'm sure they outdid themselves this time. Besides which, their versatility is terribly impressive — having spent most of the year in concert performances and recording studios, they bound on to the stage every year for Pinchgut, as ready to move around and act as any seasoned opera chorus. This year some of them were even called upon to speak English texts between the acts and, all things considered, they managed remarkably well.  

Two friends of mine are already in love with Anders J. Dahlin, the excellent haute-contre who sang David. I doubt they're the only ones. He was not your standard swashbuckling military hero. In fact sometimes he might have been a bit too self-effacing on stage, but in the end, I thought he made that work for him quite well, and I liked him for it. Besides which, his vocal portrayal provided all the colour a girl (or boy) could want — his range is pretty phenomenal, silky and seamless throughout, and he had a wonderful way of finding recognisable emotions within the libretto's formal declamations. This is one smart and stylish singer. 

I know a few people were probably disappointed that David's lover (and in this production, he definitely is his lover) was sung by a woman, but it wasn't written for an adult male in the first place, and I'm sure we'd much rather have a woman than a boy soprano. True, nobody is ever going to believe for a second that Sara Macliver is a man, but at least she was costumed as a bit of a girly-boy, which was somewhat easier to go along with than a thoroughly butch portrayal would have been. And I have to say, by the time Jonathan and David shared a kiss, I was definitely thinking of them as a pair of men — and they made a pretty adorable couple. 

Sara sounded lovely. I am never going to go crazy for her as I do for some (many) other sopranos, but that's just me, and it doesn't mean I'm entirely blind (or deaf) to her charms. There's no arguing with the sweetness or musicality of her singing, and she brought real tenderness — plus the odd mischievous flicker — to this role. And I'd rather hear her die as Jonathan than almost any hacking Mimi. 

One of the finest performances in the opera was over almost before it had begun — Paul McMahon's Pythonisse, who has an extended monologue in the prologue and then is never heard from again. Oh, but with Paul in the role you really, really wish she'd return. His vibrant, fearless tenor was electrifying in the Pythonisse's diabolical invocations, and his performanc all the more impressive for having been delivered under the cloak of darkness in a corner of the stage while somebody else acted the part. And no, we're not talking about a repeat performance of the Infamous Makropulos. In fact, it was one of this productions most effective ideas — the role was sung by Paul, but acted by ten year old Madeleine Benson, a ghostly little 18th century witch-child with wild eyes and barefeet, raising her tiny hands to the sky with eerie confidence in her sorcery, then clinging, terrified, to Saul when her spells began to fail. 

Speaking of the supernatural, one could not help but be spooked by David Parkin's sepulchral low notes as the Ghost of Saul. Since winning Operatunity Oz, David has appeared in concert performances and covered roles for Opera Australia, but I believe this was his first time actually on stage, in character, since he sang Sparafucile as his prize. That's a career landmark in itself, but to achieve it in such a specialised and demanding kind of repertoire is especially admirable. His nerves showed a little around the edges, but he acquitted himself with real style. So I still can't choose a favourite Parkin. 

Dean Robinson was excellent as Saul. Not sympathetic, exactly, but that's as it ought to be: Saul's inner turmoil can be pitied, but his destructive paranoia is pretty difficult to indulge. Robinson did a very good job, however, of expressing both Saul's irrational jealousy and his basic (now corrupted) nobility. He has just the right voice for royalty, and his sense of French style (not to mention French diction) was impeccable. Simon Lobelson (who I see has attained the ultimate accolade, an entry in the Barihunks blog) was a slightly thin-voiced but effective Joabel, apparently channelling Jonathan Summers' Iago. There was perhaps a little too much obvious swaggering, but he had a way of lacing his words with venom which I rather liked. 

There were a number of small solo roles taken by members of Cantillation. Particular kudos to David Greco, who not only sang quite brilliantly, but also took a pretty challenging speaking role, reading several of this production's interpolated texts (war poetry and letters) with real sensitivity and impressive dramatic sense. Anna Fraser was light and pretty as a shepherd(ess) and there were strong contributions from Ashley Giles as a Follower of Jonathan and Andrei Laptev as a Philistine. 

So far I've spoken almost exclusively of the musical side of this performance, and with good reason. The music, and the artists who bring it to fruition, are the heart and soul and triumph of this production, and, I think, of Pinchgut more generally. The music is what it's All About — discovering wonderful works of art that we need to hear, and allowing us to hear them at a terrifically high standard. That's not to say that the company doesn't put equal energy into the theatrical aspect of its productions, however. This is my third Pinchgut production, and all have been thoughtful, intriguing and mostly attractive stagings. 

This year's, however, was a bit problematic. Clearly there was a lot of intelligent thought behind Chas Rader-Schieber's conception of D&J, but I'm not certain that all of it succeeded. There were some ideas I liked a lot. His decision to remove the ambiguity of the friendship and make it clear that David and Jonathan were in a committed romantic and physical relationship, for instance, I thought was a valid and laudable one. Some will lament the loss of subtext, but Charpentier and his librettist did not write an opera about subtext, and nor did the Jesuits of Louis-le-Grand commision one. They had an unambiguously positive view of the friendship as they interpreted it. So does Rader-Schieber, and so do David's and Jonathan's friends and followers. I'm all for that. 

I was less keen on the modern-soldiers-in-ancient-world schtick. We've seen all that before. Saul and Jonathan in ruffles and tailcoats, soldiers in bulletproof vest and gasmasks. Yes, we get it. War, then as now, is personally devastating. It separates those who love one another, sometimes forever. The point is worth making, but I don't think it needs to be made in such an obvious fashion. Isn't the whole point of these so-called "timeless" or "universal" themes that they shouldn't depend on modernisation for their impact? I always think it's more powerful to discover one's own experience in a far-removed world than to have the similarities pointed out by a mirror image. The addition of spoken texts between the acts was an interesting idea in theory — a clever nod to the fact that the opera was originally presented in tandem with a spoken play — but in execution it was overkill. The letters were certainly moving (the poems less so) but there was nothing they said about love in a time of war — then, or now, or anywhere between — which hadn't already been said, with more beauty and subtlety, by the opera itself. 

However, it certainly looked good, even if what went on wasn't always entirely convincing. This may be most appealing set Pinchgut has yet created; certainly it's the best of the three I've experienced. Designers Brad Clark and Alexandra Sommers had done an impressive job — presumably with rather limited resources — of evoking both lavish luxury and ugly destruction, and the massive Caravaggio (David with the Head of Goliath) which dominated most of the rear wall was a striking vision. 

And I have to give credit to Chas Rader-Schieber for the strength and coherence with which he pursued his vision, even if I don't necessarily agree with all of his ideas. In an opera where it could be argued that nothing really happens, he made sure something was always happening, but without herding it aimless crowds or forcing too much stage business on his principals. (The chorus is another story, but never mind.) The relationship between David and Jonathan was sensitively handled, as was Saul's painful and ultimately doomed journey to self-destruction. 

I seem to have difficulty shutting up about this production. The first draft of my NZ Opera News review ran to something like 1200 words before I'd even mentioned the singing. Half a day of editing followed. So, no surprise that here, unfettered, I've gone on at such length. But why not? Pinchgut comes but once a year, and David et Jonathas perhaps only once a lifetime — I think they deserve all the words I can offer them. Thanks once again, Pinchgut, for a fabulous pre-Christmas present.

David et Jonathas

[Pinchgut Opera's production of Charpentier's David et Jonathas opened last night. I have reviews in the pipeline for NZ Opera News and The Opera Critic, so in the meantime, some non-review thoughts. More on the performance itself in a few days.]

Sitting face to face with David et Jonathas for two and a half hours, I was struck, more than I had been in preliminary listening, by just how different a proposition a piece like this is to the baroque opera which is (slightly) more frequently offered in these parts: meaning Purcell and Handel. The operas of both those composers offer, in their different ways, a more obviously varied selection of musical pleasures (and, let's be honest, longueurs.) There are singable songs in Purcell and excerptable arias in Handel. You can shy away from the whole opera, but still find a hit or two (or three) to hang on to. 

With Charpentier, it's a different experience, and perhaps a more demanding one. To find gratification in this music — and there's much to be found — you need to enter into the spirit and style of it from the outset, and you need to be willing to stay the course. It would be difficult, at least on first hearing, to pick and choose favourite moments, and well nigh impossible to doze through the recitative and perk up for the arias, because the division is so slight — often non-existent — that chances are, you'd miss a lot in the process. A Handel opera will cleanly and clearly tick its various boxes: a lament, a love song, a mad scene, each aria set in distinct and characteristic style. David et Jonathas is far from monotonous, but its invention and variety are on a smaller, subtler scale, and changes come gradually rather than all at once. 

The result of this unity is a piece which de-emphasises the individual in favour of the cumulative power of a collective effort. Characters are delineated, voices and personalities distinguished from one another, contrasting musical ideas raised, but the shape (and ultimate appeal) of the opera emerges more clearly from the mingling and massing of these constituent parts than from the manner in which each expresses itself alone. That's as true of the drama as of the music — it is the underlying psychology of the story which takes primacy over the specific conflicts and personal dramas of the characters involved. In that respect, the self-contained fluency of this opera might actually put it at an advantage over its Handelian successors: the huge effort which directors often expend in drawing engaging, meaningful psychology out of a Handel opera isn't quite so necessary here, where the essential musical structure and style of the piece has already moved us into that realm, eschewing personality-driven vocal showcases and ensuring that what showcases there are are subservient to a musically and psychologically cohesive whole.

This could all just be euphemistic for sameishness, but that, while an understandable complaint, is not, I think, a particularly relevant one. I would not say, as one man I overheard during interval did, that the music is "very repetitive". My own sense was of a single musical entity rather than the repetition of smaller sections. Actually, I suspect that's probably what the man in question meant too, that the music feels as if it's all much of a muchness — the difference, I suppose, is in how, on a given night, you respond to that muchness, and even this man was evidently swayed by the sheer beauty of the sound, if not desperately inclined to bathe in it at such length. 

So yes, in a way, it is "the same" from start to finish, and at all points in between — but it's not "the same" in a grey, boring, repetitive sense. It's sameishness in the sense of a unified whole, a continuous flow which shifts and changes but doesn't stop and start. The structure of a Handel opera, with its clear contrasts and variety, certainly has its advantages, but it's also true — and no bad thing at that — that those arias could in many cases be swapped from one work to another with minimal disruption. David et Jonathas is different. You'd really need to take either the whole opera or nothing at all. Carving out a chunk at random would just leave both donor and recipient in an incoherent mess.