Lost Highway — an opera by Olga Neuwirth
Libretto By Olga Neuwirth and Elfriede Jelinek
Based on the film by David Lynch

A visit from Oberlin’s Contemporary Music Ensemble this weekend put Columbia musical theater to shame. The occasion was the US premiere of Olga Neuwirth’s opera of David Lynch’s 1997 film, Lost Highway. The film is certainly an unexpected choice for opera. But Lynch himself has commented on the musical nature of the film and has compared to it as a “psychogenic fugue,” a form of amnesia that creates new realities. The endlessly enigmatic director’s shifting narratives and odd borrowings from Eastern philosophy, were less extreme and puzzling in the hour-and-a-half work that played for two sold-out performances at Miller Theater .

Though the intricacies and extremities of the screenplay have been toned down by librettists Neuwirth and Elfriede Jelinek (the 2004 Nobel Laureate for literature) Lost Highway: The Opera is still very much a nightmarish meditation on identity, consciousness, and voyeurism. Lynch has said that his two main muses are dreams and caffeine. Lost Highway’s fragmented spiral of madness makes one want to take Lynch at his word.

Summarizing would be beside the point. The extreme subjectivity that haunts both the stage and film version and veers dangerously close to solipsism is encapsulated in a line in both versions: “I like to remember things my own way. How I remember them. Not necessarily how they happen.”

It was difficult to assess both the music and vocal technique of the singers. The score was so replete with electronic elements that it was often hard to tell where the sound engineering (by Tom Lopez) ended and the composing began. There was copious use of echo, some heart-thumping bass and vocal refraction. The singers were all amplified and did a fair amount of talking (song really only comes to dominate in the second half) imitating the unsettling and off-putting way in which Lynch characters declaim. Neuwirth milked these heightened modes of speech for their musical content. The singing, which predominated in the half, was atonal and highly melismatic. Sustained notes and falsetto gained further distortion from the sound equipment and the accumulating of extra-musical sound (often industrial), which rendered the dialogue difficult to hear.

The all-student cast did an impressively professional job. As the sadistic Mr .Eddy, Raphael Sacks turned out a freakish and scene chewing performance. Alice Teyssier as the elusive love interests Renee and Alice (Patricia Arquette in the film version) did justice to the role of the femme fatale and to her oddly stilted dialogue. The other standout – for sheet strangeness – was the ubiquitous Mystery Man – sung with eerie relish by the countertenor Chad Grossman.

The inventive production by Jonathon Field fit the musical and dramatic material well. Giovanni Campo’s slanting set by took equal inspiration from Doctors Caligari and Seuss. Aside from the oblong windows and doorways, there was precious little onstage. The production made effective use of video projection, both on a translucent screen in front of the actors, and the back wall of the set. The images ranged from the percussive two-lane blacktop known from the film to images of soft-core pornography. One of the most harrowing effects was a camera trailing down a red corridor, which was back-projected onto the wall.

The onstage violence was alternately cartoonish and disturbing, and heightened by strobe effects. Other lurid touches included zombie-like clubbers in white masks, a particularly nasty throat-slashing and a drawn-out scene of a man being beaten up.

In the pit, Timothy Weiss led the Oberlin Cotemporary Music Ensemble. They seemed to have fun with the mischievously experimental score, which was full of sinister modulations and layers of harsh tonalities piling up. Oddly enough, in one of the score’s jazzier moments was a direct quote from the Threepenny Opera.

All in all, the performance managed to thoroughly confound expectations. Judging by the enthusiastic ovation, the audience appreciated the surprise.

Opera keeps getting sexier and sexier. In recent weeks, the Met has hosted Anna Netrebko in Bellini’s “I Puritani” and the electrifying Karita Matilla in Janacek’s “Jenufa.” Add to this impressive roster, Rene Fleming and Dimitri Hvorostovsky, the stars of the revival of Robert Carsen’s production of Tchaikovsky’s “Eugene Onegin.”

Adapted from the novel-in-verse by Alexander Pushkin, “Onegin” is Tchaikovsky’s most popular opera. The duo of Fleming and Hvorostovsky was the obvious selling point (and seems to have done the trick as the production has sold-out completely). Both were singing these roles for the first time at the Met. I find it hard to believe that they’ve ever given the roles more justice. Valerie Gergiev, who leads the St. Petersberg Kirov Opera, helmed a well-prepared orchestra in an exciting performance of the melancholy score.

Singing Onegin for the first time at the Met was the magnetic baritone Dimitri Hvorosovky, last seen as Rodgrigo in the Met’s superlative Don Carlo. As the jaded and cynical man of the world who misses his chance at redemption and kills his friend in a duel, Hvorostovsky cut an imposing figure with his full mane of snow-white hair. And even if his acting was a bit stiff at times, he seemed consummately at home in this role, singing with full-throated zeal over a long, pitch-perfect performance.

Fleming realized the role of Tatiana magnificently. Her commitment to the role was seen both in her vocal technique and acting. Early on, Fleming made shy, timid gestures that complemented her lush low range nicely. Her moment of glory came in the famous Letter Scene, where Tatiana stays up all night composing a love letter to Onegin. Fleming sang with a soft yet powerful bell-like timbre. During her subsequent confrontation with Onegin, Fleming’s face was violet with embarrassment.

Hvorostovky and Fleming reunited in the final scene. Onegin, still disconsolate over Lenski’s death, pleads with her to start over with him. But Tatiana’s sense of duty is too strong to betray her husband, Prince Gremin. The exquisitely sung closing scene was full of ferocity, tenderness and despair. The stark lighting got a bit out of hand, casting garish spots and heavy shadows, but did little to distract from the scene’s gut-wrenching force.

The Mexican tenor Ramon Vargas was this production’s wild card, after his disappointing turn in this season’s revival of Faust. I’m glad to report that he came through beautifully as Onegin’s friend, Lenski. So beautifully, in fact, that I’m willing to forgive his Faust if it enabled him to dedicated himself more fully to learning this role. His sweet and arduous tenor navigated the Russian libretto impressively. Early on his top notes were rather clipped, but he soon warmed up. His farewell to life in the act II aria, “Kuda, Kuda,” and the ensuing duet with his soon-to-be assassin both gained Vargas lengthy ovations. His acting was likewise impressive. When he fought with Onegin in Act II, one wondered if the two singers were not genuinely going at it.
 
On the whole, the supporting cast was able to hold its own against the leads. Elena Zarembra sang Olga, sister to Tatiana and Lenski’s betrothed. Early on, she sang with a heavy wobble and there didn’t seem to be much coloristic variety. As Tatiani’s nurse, Larisa Shevchonko responded to Fleming’s youthful energy with old, soothing declamations. The Met veteran Jean-Paul Fouchécourt made the most of his cameo as the grandfatherly Frenchman Triquet, who serenades Tatiana in act II. As Lenski’s second Zaretski, Richard Bernstein, entirely in silouette, was a commanding if faceless presence. Sergei Aleksashkin as Prince Gremin who marries Tatiana in Onegin’s absence, preached to Onegin with paternal and aristoricatic grace.
 
Carsen’s production is elegant to the point of abstraction. Yet, thanks in part to the set design of Michael Levine, minimalism has rarely stood out so little and communicated the fullness, sweep and grandeur of an epic. In this respect, it makes for good comparison to Minghella’s Butterfly: both stagings manage to convey the full historical sweep of their subject matter without falling back on monumental conventions. This production is full of arresting visual touches and theatrical cues. From the opening blizzard of leaves falling on the melancholy Onegin’s head to the claustrophobic dance scenes. The transition between acts two and three is seamless: Having just fatally shot Lenski, Onegin is attired for the Prince’s ball to the accompaniment of the famous polonaise.

Gergiev is a notoriously impulsive conductor and some of his signature restlessness came through. The strings were hushed as they played the opening legato bars, lingering obsessively at the end of phrases. In the opening scene, he allowed the sinuous melody lines to recede like the memories they were evoking. Dynamic levels were less than uniform but Gergiev managed not to drown the singers, especially during the tricky choral and ensemble scenes. There was an especially lovely horn figure gliding about the Lenski / Onegin duet. Perhaps most sublime, though, was how he reined the orchestra in the opening to the letter scene, as if to dissect the melodies. One detail, however, was lost on the audience. Gergiev held the anguished final note, but everyone was too enthusiastic to notice.

David Byrne:
Songs from Here Lies Love
Saturday, February 3, 2006 at 8 PM

Though David Byrne has spent the last 15 years exploring new musical territory, he is still best known as the songwriter and lead vocalist for Talking Heads, the influential band he helped found in 1974. Since the band’s breakup in 1991, Byrne has produced a eclectic array of new material and become a mentor and inspiration to a new generation of musicians, including the Arcade Fire and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. It is therefore admirable that Carnegie Hall invited Byrne to curate his own “Perspectives” series last weekend. The four-concert series featured performances by Byrne as well as handpicked guest artists, including Vashti Bunyan and Alarm Will Sound.

On Saturday night, Byrne gave New York audiences the first peek at his new song cycle, Here Lies Love, based on the life of Imelda Marcos, the controversial former first lady of the Philippines. Byrne is obviously fascinated by Imelda, who played a prominent diplomatic role during the 10-year period of martial law declared by her husband Fernando. On his website, Byrne speculates that Here Lies Love might be about the “conflation of fantasy, personal pain and politics that runs through history.” However, the music and lyrics made Byrne’s own views on his controversial subject hard to pinpoint.

As Byrne casually walked onstage, the sold-out house shook with applause. “This is some place to audition new material. So, thanks to Carnegie for taking the risk,” he said. Luckily for Byrne, it was a risk that the musically adventurous audience (I bumped into Philip Glass in the men’s room) was more than willing to take.

Clocking at a hefty two hours, Here Lies Love (which was a collaboration with Fatboy Slim) can be described as a four-act disco opera. The 20 songs that comprise the work (the title refers to Imelda Marcos’ desired epitaph) are all in a pop-musical vein. In the program notes Byrne writes that he felt a dance-music idiom would be a good way to make people care about this woman.

Most of the songs were sung by, with the composer on guitar. Byrne played guitar and sang along for only a third of the songs, mostly doing backup. The lead vocalists, Joan Almedilla and Ganda Suthivarakom, represented Imelda and her governess, Estrella, respectively. The band included drums, percussion, bass, and - for the final five songs - a small orchestra.

Though technically a work-in-progress (Byrne sees the project going in a more theatrical direction), the first performance in Australia this past May was a partly staged, multi-media production. At Carnegie, the theatrical conceit was more muted, although it certainly came across in the tuneful, melody-driven and infectiously danceable songs. Midway through the evening, a few teenagers did a rather lonely dance in the aisles and the ushers let them have their fun. The lyrics were often syrupy (ex. “The most important things are love and beauty / It doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor”) and the tunes were conventional to the point of mystification. I guess one could consider this Byrne’s Evita.

With the three other “Perspectives” concerts, Byrne certainly had a lot on his mind. The stress seemed to show on Saturday night. While he played with energy and enthusiasm – occasionally dancing around stage as he strummed his fender - he seemed a bit out of it while introducing the songs with historical and biographical information. In one of his better moments, he defended the project as historically accurate. ”All this is thoroughly researched. This isn’t artistic license. This is reportage.”