The Berlin Edition of the New York Feuilleton (fɶ'yə-tôɴ')

The highly anticipated Staatsoper debut of Swiss director Jossi Wieler took place in late January. The work was Verdi's crowd-pleasing, tuneful Un Ballo in Maschera, for which the house on Unter den Linden had assembled an impressive roster of vocal and dramatic talent (seen Jan. 20).

Although Wieler and his frequent collaborator Sergio Morabito set their Ballo in the ballroom of the "Arvidson Palace Hotel" — a setting that brought to mind some long-vanished Catskills resort — the original Boston character names were retained. The directors half-heartedly tried to infuse some couleur locale by casting black extras as the hotel staff and — tastelessly — as hanging victims during the gallows scene.

Wieler and Morabito directed the singers to exaggeratedly physical performances, including strenuous dancing and sometimes disquietingly violent sexual antics. But there was much in the way of dark comedy as well, such as having Amelia's son playing jump rope with cord that had been Renato's attempted murder weapon. During the ball itself, the focus was squarely on a wheeled-in bench that contained the assassins as well as the parting lovers. A pair of ballroom dancers was all but lost during the deliberate preparations for the killing, with the assassins passing a pistol back and forth while Oscar was drunkenly splayed across their laps. After Renato pulled the trigger, the killers sank back into their seats and waited with irritation for Riccardo to die.

The costume choices were equally baffling: Silvano's men looked like Vietnam veterans, the children's chorus wore hand-me-down pajamas, and the chorus in the Act II recognition scene wore bathrobes. Few people — not even Riccardo — came to the ball in costume, although the string orchestra on the ballroom stage showed up dressed like some kind of cowboy troubadours. Costume designer Anja Rabes shared in the vociferous boos that greeted the two directors as they took their bows.

Luckily, the hissing did not extend to conductor Philippe Jordan, who took special care with Verdi's expansive and creative use of cello, harp, flute and English horn obbligatos. From the crisp and somewhat overripe overture, it was obvious that Jordan was equally attuned to the score's sincere and ironic dimensions. Sardonic passages were charged by mocking strings; moments of dramatic intensity were given full-bodied orchestral force.

Leading the strong cast as Riccardo, the governor of Boston targeted for assassination, was tenor Piotr Beczala. His lyrical account of his opening aria, "La rivedrà nell'estasi," marked him as a singer whose voice can seem both hefty and light simultaneously. He stayed in top form until evening's end, giving a stirring account of Act III's "Ma se m'è forza perderti" without overdoing the pathos.

As his friend and unlikely assassin Renato, the long-haired Dalibor Jenis sang with a creamy, agile baritone that was not so effortlessly powerful as Beczala's but comparably durable. Ulrica, the "Creole" prophet whose predictions go unheeded, was sung by Larissa Diadkova. She made a commanding entrance with "Re dell'abisso, affrettati," which she sang in a voice rich and smooth in all registers, while a heavy hotel key hovered in the air, levitating comically.

Initially, the Amelia of Catherine Naglestad paled in comparison. Despite some impressive moments of agility, her voice had some guttural low notes and a quivery breathiness that undermined her Act I interlude with Diadkova. Naglestad was at her vocal and emotive best in Act II's "Ma dall'arido stelo divulsa," which she delivered with equal parts nobility and desperation. She sang the heartrending "Morrò, ma prima in grazia," with consistent intensity and pitch while being "strangled" by Renato.

The ravishing twenty-four-year-old soprano Anna Prohaska stepped in at the last moment for Sylvia Schwartz as Riccardo's page, Oscar. Usually a "pants" role, Oscar was here portrayed out of drag. Her dynamite coloratura in "Volta la terrea" had dazzling speed and accuracy. She came to the ball dressed in a dead-swan costume (à la Björk at the 2001 Oscar ceremony) and sang her other show-stopping number, "Saper vorreste," while lying supine.

A.J. GOLDMANN

Götz Friedrich's 1984–85 production of the Ring arrived in January at the Deutsche Oper Berlin, carrying with it a mixed bag of musical and theatrical goods (seen Jan. 5, 6, 10 and 12). The sold-out cycle was presented over two weekends. There were several last-minute changes, most notably cancellations from the conductor Mikko Franck and American baritone Greer Grimsley, who was to sing Wotan.

In Das Rheingold, DOB found an excellent replacement in Johan Reuter, a bright-voiced, creamy baritone who infused Wotan with an unexpected degree of youthful ardor. In the first two evenings of the cycle, Fricka was the astonishing Marina Prudenskaja, an aristocratic mezzo who vented her righteous anger in a fierce, razor-like voice. Another standout was Oleg Bryjak as Alberich, a bloodcurdling bass who in this production controlled Nibelheim from an underground factory reminiscent of Fritz Lang's film Metropolis. But the evening belonged to the boisterous and ironic Loge of Clemens Bieber, who dispensed his dubious advice with cunning glee and a self-confident, mellifluous tenor.

Die Walküre introduced James Johnson's Wotan to the cycle. The capable baritone returned for the Wanderer in Siegfried, singing with deep, rounded if occasionally raspy tones, giving the god the proper balance of severity and vulnerability. The true star of Die Walküre was Christopher Ventris as Siegmund, who sang heroically and with impressive dramatic range. As his Wälsung sister, Sieglinde, Petra Lang was understated and unconvincing in Act I. In Act II, she registered greater dramatic commitment but sang with hysterical, uneven tones. Her best moment was a rapturous reaction to Brünnhilde's annunciation.

Irène Theorin's Brünnhilde was frustratingly uneven. She was in good voice for her striking Act II entrance and managed the "Hojotoho" with exciting assurance. However, she lacked the requisite stamina and was struggling by the beginning of Act III. For her final scene, Theorin sang more softly, which seemed to reduced the strain and paved the way for a smooth, effective ending of the opera.

Top vocal and dramatic honors in Siegfried belonged to Burkhard Ulrich, a cunning yet eminently likable Mime. As Siegfried, American tenor Stephen Gould, a Bayreuth veteran, made an equivocal impression: seemingly underpowered in Act I, he plowed through Act II with exciting juvenile ardor and maintained enough stamina for a satisfactory Act III love duet.

Alfons Eberz made for a much finer Siegfried in Götterdämmerung: his riveting heldentenor faltered only in the long Act III monologue. As the Siegfried and Götterdämmerung Brünnhildes, Luana DeVol was at her vengeful best in Act II of the final opera. She was less compelling when it came to expressing the transports of love; moments that called for airy smoothness were often wobbly. Her performance was tainted by frequent patches of strident vibrato and piercing high notes, especially regrettable in her immolation scene.

Lenus Carlson's tentative performance as Gunther reinforced his character's consummate spinelessness. Edith Haller was a naïve, and rosy-voiced Gutrune. Marina Prudenskaja had a rousing cameo as the Götterdämmerung Waltraute. The evening's finest performance came from Matti Salminen, who sang Hagen with a netherworldly bass and menacing intensity.

The chorus of the DOB was well prepared as the Gibichungs. Among the cycle's other integral vocal clusters, the Rhinemaidens and Norns were pitch-perfect and impressive, unlike the confused mess of leather-clad Valkyries.

Twenty-eight-year-old Finnish conductor Mikko Franck was to lead the entire cycle but bowed out on short notice. In his place, Lothar Zagrosek (aged sixty-five) and Philippe Auguin (aged forty-six) shared conducting duties, which made for a less unified cycle. Zagrosek was fiery and brisk. However, he often treated the individual leitmotifs in isolation rather than demonstrating their function in the larger musical fabric. Auguin's performances were more careful and leisurely, although he was more prone to drown the singers out.

Friedrich's production has enjoyed more than forty performances: wear and tear showed in some creaky sets and malfunctioning props. The stage concept, a massive "Time Tunnel" that connects the various worlds of the opera with our own, is visually striking yet underutilized. At the end of Götterdämmerung, after some confusing pyrotechnics, ostensible survivors of the wreckage huddle together and lift their eyes to an apocalyptic landscape inhabited by statuesque figures draped in white shrouds. The arresting visuals provided an effective complement to the cosmic musical bursts with which the opera concludes. It seemed to signal not only a farewell to the gods but the fact that this much-used production is perhaps ready to be retired.

A.J. GOLDMANN

Why was the Don Giovanni unveiled in mid-December at Staatsoper Unter den Linden — conducted by Daniel Barenboim with the commanding René Pape in the title role — such a bore? An insipid, dull staging by the house's artistic director, Peter Mussbach, shared the blame with Barenboim's slow, ponderous conducting, which made for a fussy, airless performance (seen Dec. 15).

Mussbach's abstract production, a coproduction with La Scala, was met with boos. While Mussbach's uninspired visuals — a one-dimensional set consisting of two black partitions that opened, closed and rotated to facilitate entrances and exits — indicated a lack of ideas, Barenboim seemed to have far too many up his sleeve: he tried his damnedest to bring out different qualities in the music, aria by aria and ensemble by ensemble, at the expense of presenting the work as any kind of organic whole.

Things got off to a promising start with an expansive overture. The trouble started when the curtain rose on Leporello (Hanno Müller-Brachmann), who garbled words and even cracked a little in his "Notte e giorno faticar," followed by a trio with audibly out-of-sync principals. Müller-Brachmann improved greatly in time for the catalogue aria. Luckily, given the languid pace of Barenboim's conducting, the bass-baritone was prepared to meet the challenge of the long, slow crescendo that brought the number to a close.

René Pape sang majestically. His champagne aria was brazen, robust, dramatically and vocally assured. His effortlessly expansive voice, with its great tonal and expressive range, is reminiscent at moments of Fischer-Dieskau in its soft and creamy character. Even Pape's whispers were musical. One of the best moments came when, under the cloak of night, master and servant swapped costumes. One of the opera's most implausible episodes was here made believable, thanks to the marvelous impersonations Pape and Müller-Brachmann did of one another.

Even with the luxurious musical pacing, the Donna Anna of Anna Samuil was too legato and too weighty: all evening long, she channeled Wagnerian pomp into an otherwise technically accomplished performance. The Elvira of Annette Dasch came zipping in on a white Vespa, with a matching umbrella. With Barenboim's slowed-down tempo, her lyrical "Ah! chi mi dice mai" was more suited to a weepy Puccini heroine than to a vengeful opera-seria character, although "Ah, fuggi il traditor" was marked by welcome refinement and crispness. In Act II, she sang an impassioned "Mi tradì" while completely prone. Her performance was earthy, visceral and riveting, though certainly not to all tastes.

Despite his vampire-ish costume, Pavol Breslik made a fiercely magnetic Ottavio. His controlled, rapturous "Dalla sua pace" was the highlight of a long Act I. The Masetto of Arttu Kataja was a spiky-haired kid who made his entrance playing air-guitar. During "Batti, batti," he flirted with some bridesmaids. Sylvia Schwartz was a suitably petite and coquettish Zerlina. Her voice was supple if somewhat rough around the edges. While her singing was tentative in "Là ci darem la mano," she made up for it later by skillfully ornamenting her "Vedrai, carino." Christof Fischesser was a booming Commendatore, but the silver body-paint he was lacquered with made him look like the Tin Man — an unintended touch of comedy in a long, humorless evening.

A.J. GOLDMANN