The early twentieth century French composer Paul Dukas is something of a one-hit wonder. Though a well respected composer in his time, nowadays, his reputation hinges solely upon his musical setting of a Goethe poem, �”Der Zauberlerhling�”, (�”The Sorcerer�’s Apprentice�”) popularized by Disney in the 1940 film �”Fantasia.�” Dukas, who was primarily a critic and teacher (Olivier Messiaen is his most famous student), wrote several ambitious orchestral works, a ballet set in the Far East and an opera based on the myth of Bluebeard. That opera, �”Ariane et Barbe Bleue�” has been resurrected by City Opera in a handsome if somewhat misconcieved new production by Paul-Emile Foury.

    Based on the same legend that inspired Offenbach�’s �”Barbe Bleue�” and Bartok�’s more famous setting �”Bluebeard�’s Castle�”, �”Ariane�” boasts a libretto by the Belgian Nobel laureate Maurice Maeterlinck, the symbolist poet better known for his libretto to Claude Debussy�’s �”Pelléas et Mélisande.�” The twist here is that we get the story from the point of view of Bluebeard�’s sixth wife, the eponymous Ariane, who arrives at Bluebeard�’s castle with her nurse and is given a ring of six silver keys and one gold one, which Bluebeard forbids her from using.  Ariane uses the keys to unlock six doors, behind which lie untold jewels and treasures. But she cannot resist the lure of the golden key. Behind the seventh door, Ariane finds Bluebeard�’s five previous wives and helps them to escape. The villagers, who suspect Bluebeard of murdering his previous wives attack and tie him up. At the sight of the wounded Bluebeard, the five wives return, and Ariane leaves them to nurse him back to health.

    This very minimal plot is embellished by chromatic lyricism. Dukas�’ style is decidedly modern, although its easy to see why �”Ariane�” never acquired a reputation comparable to that enjoyed by �”Pelléas.�” For all its fantastical tunefulness, the score doesn�’t approach the subtle, dream-like quality of Debussy or the orchestral wizardry of Richard Strauss. �”Ariane�” remains a very pleasant musical experience, but it�’s claim to any place of prominence in 20th century opera is dubious.

    City has selected their small cast with care. The most consistently great performers were the Swiss mezzo Ursula Ferri as the Nurse and Laura Vlasak Nolen, a mezzo as well, as Bluebeard�’s first wife Sélysette. Both women had tough, powerful voices worthy of valkyries, with Nolen erring more on the soft and gentle side. Renate Behle, a distinguished Austrian mezzo-soprano of German repertoire. But making her City début as Ariane, she seemed uptight, nervous and insecure. She loosened up in subsequent acts, but couldn�’t quite control an excessive quiver and often resorted to shouting. As Bluebeard – contrary to appearances a pitifully small role – the bass Ethan Herschenfeld sounded tired and weak.

  The sets and costumes, designed by Louis Désiré, were too minimalist and contributed a sense of inertia to the already static work.  The lighting, however, designed by Jeff Harris, was starkly atmospheric and hence effective. In the pit, Leon Botstein, president of Bard College and conductor of the American Symphony Orchestra, made an admirable City début by demonstrating a clear sense for the unburdened lyricism of Dukas�’ writing. 

     The sights and sounds of the Far East came to Brooklyn last week, as the National Ballet of China gave five performances of “Raise the Red Lantern,” in its New York premiere, as part of the BAM 2005 Next Wave Festival. The ballet, which was given its world premiere in Beijing in 2001, is the result of a remarkable collision of talent. The filmmaker Zhang Yimou (“To Live,” “Hero,” “House of Flying Daggers”) directs this very loose adaptation of his much-lauded 1991 film, which is set to an intriguing score by Chen Qigang, a composer whose musical experience places him in both hemispheres. The expressive and fluid choreography is provided by two of China’s most esteemed choreographers, Wang Yuanyaun and Wang Xipeng, artistic director of the Dortmund Opera House Ballet.

    Now in its 46th year, The National Ballet of China incorporates techniques and style typical of the Russian School. In addition to performing Western ballet for Chinese audiences, it also creates its own works by combining elements of Eastern and Western dance, music and theater. This fusion of styles is felt in Chen’s strongly unified, leitmotivic score, which can go from sounding like a Chinese folksong to Debussy to the Korean composer Isang Yun to Stravinsky in a matter of minutes. (At BAM, a tape of the score accompanied the performance). Onstage, this blending of cultural elements is felt by the entirely Chinese corps dressed in Oriental garb, stepping gracefully in the manner of classical dance. Also incorporated into the ballet are elements of Peking Opera (we see an actual performance in once scene) and Chinese Shadow Theater. For the most part, these fusions work beautifully. Only during an early pas de deux between an opera singer (in full garb) and the heroine, is the synthesis clumsy.    
    Reworking the film’s plot into a classical three-act structure (it also features a prologue and epilogue) Zhang and Co. simplify many of its themes, eliminate several main characters, and invent others. In the end, the stage version bears only a superficial resemblance to the film. The complex and not consistently sympathetic heroine of the original is here presented as a complete innocent and martyr, a young woman who is cruelly torn away from her lover, a performer in a Peking Opera troupe to be the second concubine of a wealthy master. In the master’s house, she incurs the envy of the other concubine, already in heated rivalry with the master’s wife. After the girl reunites surreptitiously with her young lover, the first concubine betrays her to the master, thereby hoping to win his favor. Instead, she is rebuked for reasons that aren’t altogether clear from either the performance or the program notes. In despair, she lights all the red lanterns in her yard (in the film, red lanterns indicate the house of the concubine where the master chooses to sleep on a given night) (there is no way to gather this from the performance itself) and, as punishment, joins in the two lovers’ fate. The ballet ends with the three being flogged to death.
     It would, of course, be impossible to convey the dramatic and emotional complexity of the film, purely though music and dance. But aside from being more straightforward and obvious, the ballet seems far less political than the film, which was initially banned in China. Watching the film, it’s hard not to find abhorrent the barbaric treatment of women in early 20th century China. On stage, however, we lose all sense of historical context. While the master’s cruelty still shocks us, the punishment seems entirely divorced from the political reality of the country. This fact might explain why the Chinese government has promoted such a wide tour of the work, including this belated American tour, which included performances in California and Washington (check!) before arriving in Brooklyn last week.
    While the ballet version doesn’t aim to capture much of the spirit of the film, cinematic elements are imitated through slow-motion dance, shadow play, and evocative lighting. Right before the flogging, what appears to be a film screen, unfurled on stage. Instead of directly interpolating film, however, male members of the corps painted the screen red by slamming large, paint-soaked paddles against it.
    Other instances of visual brilliance relied, likewise, on theatrical techniques more than elaborate dance moves. And while the entire cast showed impeccable beauty and grace, the ravishing Meng Ningning, who danced the First Concubine, showed exceptional agility and perfect poise. She easily outshined her co-stars Zhu Yan (The Second Concubine) and Jin Jia (The Wife), by virtue of her beauty and dramatic abilities, as well. The choreography is kept at a very un-extravagant level, that is elegant and effective, and entirely in service of the plot and the production’s stylistic conceits. Zhang ensures that we are hooked by the endless invention onstage: an abduction in a palanquin that transforms the heroine’s simple dress into a gold kimono; a protracted rape, beginning with a violent pas de deux involving a long, red sash, before transitioning to a violent shadow-play that brings “Fantasia” to mind; the dancers bursting through the screen repeatedly and covered by a massive red sheet symbolizing the defloration; a secret tryst, and its unveiling, during a lengthy game of mahjong.  
    All in all, the ballet proves once again what an exceptional orchestrator Mr. Zhang is and give us reason to hope his latest project, a musical entitled Impression Lijiang will be in the same, formally flawless vein we’ve come to expect from him.

                          

This month the Metropolitan Opera is reviving two very different Italian comedies. Rossini’s early success, “La Cenerentola,” is a standard opera buffa based on a version of the Cinderella story. Though it was absent from the repertoire for nearly a century, the introduction of a critical edition in 1973, which corrected numerous modifications dating the late 19th-century, has ensured its place among the great comic operas. It’s mass appeal derives from the wonderfully drawn cast of characters and a marvelously tuneful and inventive score. By contrast, Verdi’s final opera, “Falstaff,” has long been considered an acquired taste. The libretto, drawn from Shakespeare’s plays “The Merry Wives of Windsor” and “King Henry IV,” is full of marvelous roles and splendid comical situations, the score is far more complex and through-composed than any of the composer’s previous works (“Otello” doesn’t come close to matching its musical sophistication). The music often seems to move independently of its vocal component, which often sounds like a glorified recitative, and can shift suddenly depending on character or situation.
    Both these productions derive an exceptional amount of strength from the singers in the titular roles. The Russian mezzo Olga Borodina turns out a beautiful Cinderella with dark and creamy accents. Returning as Sir John Falstaff is the commanding Welsh baritone Byrn Terfel. He sang the role with exceptional ease and vivacity, and leant the scheming and ridiculous hero unexpected dignity.
     Cesare Lievi’s 1997 production of “Cenerentola” looks like a collaboration between F.A.O. Schwartz and Lemony Snickett. The storybook set, with flying donkeys and closets full of clocks and shows signs of extreme decay: exaggerated cracks in the ceiling; half-broken furniture; and occasional pyrotechnics. Inhabiting this world are the oppressed Cinderella, her wicked-stepsisters (sung by Rachelle Durkin and Patricia Risley) and her stepfather (Simone Aliamo). Durkin and Risley made a ridiculously giddy team as the heartless, fiercely competitive pair who set their hopes on marrying the Prince of Salerno (Barry Banks). In this version of the tale, the prince swaps places with his valet (Simone Alberghini in a strong debut) to candidly observe his potential suitors. It is in this guise that he first meets, and falls in love with, Cinderella. Fairy godmothers, mice, pumpkins and glass slippers are all absent from this telling. Instead, Cinderella is led to the Prince’s ball by an angel (Ildar Abdrazakov), where she finds the prince, still incognito, and disappears with him while her stepsisters try every lewd trick they know to lure the valet. When the prince discards with his disguise he sends the sisters packing. Still thinking him the valet, Cinderella is stunned when the prince shows up the next day and offers marriage.
    Despite his small stature, Banks projected his confident and sweetly colored tenor with admirable force. He found the perfect degree of ardor and tenderness in his lovely duets with Borodina, including “Un soave non so che”. At times, however, his voice wore thin and strained. Alaimo got off to a bad start in Scene One, letting the buffoonery of his character get in the way of his singing. In subsequent scenes, however, they were perfectly balanced. Despite some shakiness, he nearly stole the show with his exuberant singing. Abdrazokov made the most of his small role; his inspirational address to Cinderella “Là del ciel nell’arcano profondo” was among the evening’s most gorgeous moments. His voice was like a polished jewel and every line rang out clear and rich. While less vocally and dramatically assured, Alberghini cut a striking, if slightly wobbly, figure as the valet.
    By far the weakest element of the production was the final scene, during which Cinderella marries the prince atop an enormous wedding-cake and then forgives her sisters and father. While visually enjoyable, the tiresome scene was woefully static, lacked dramatic vitality, and made me wish to yank those final pages from the score.
    By contrast, the final scene of Franco Zeffirelli’s historically detailed production of “Falstaff” was an amusing illustration of operatic excess. At the scene’s climax, the stage, transformed into a gothic Winsdor Park Forest, teamed with dozens of children dressed as fairies and demons, a horse, a dog and two goats (a man kneeled down to clean up after them). Such excesses are easily forgiven, however, when the Met assembles such an impressive cast.   
    Terfel’s Falstaff stood a head above the rest of the cast, but he sang in warm and careful harmony with his costars. As Alice and Meg, the two merry wives Falstaff hopes to seduce in order to squander their fortune, Patricia Racete and Maria Zifchak were in top form. Racete’s Alice shone brightest of all, with shapely phrasings and rich, deep tones. Mrs. Quickly, the intercessor who leads Falstaff into the wives’ trap, was sung in a delicious alto, with unexpectedly high moments, by Stephanie Blythe. Heidi Grant Murphy, boasting a very endearing quiver, and Roberto Frontali, brimming with comic flair, were likewise impressive as Alice’s daughter, Nanetta and husband, Ford. Jean-Paul Fouchécourt and Mikhail Petrenko inhabited the comic and roguish team of Bardolfo and Pistola, who start off on Falstaff’s side but quickly turn against him. The one false note in the cast was the tenor Matthew Polenzani as Nanetta’s love interest, Fenton. Through much of his role, he was straining. Try as he might, he just couldn’t build up the stamina required for his smallish role and several times he was close to cracking.   
    James Levine led the orchestra in a spirited and exciting performance, full of big flourishes and abundant energy. Only in the difficult ensemble scenes were the singers and musicians briefly out of sync. For the opera’s closing chorus – a fugue actually – Levine made the music swell gradually to a potentially dangerous level. But, the large ensemble onstage was more than up to the task, and the evening ended gloriously.