Originally Published at www.operanews.com

SCHUMANN: ”COMPLETE SONGS, VOL. 11″

Müller-Brachmann, McGreevey, Doufexis, Broderick; A. Thompson, Loges; Johnson, piano. Texts and translations. Hyperion CDJ33111

German baritone Hanno Müller-Brachmann and five collaborators, an assortment of Robert Schumann’s late-career rarities in this final release in Graham Johnson’s acclaimed eleven-volume collection of the composer’s complete songs. This whole project for the Hyperion — a worthy successor to Johnson’s groundbreaking complete Schubert series — has been a dozen years in the making; the present entry, while finely sung and produced, lacks the thematic unity of some of the earlier releases in the series. It is such a grab-bag of selections that it appears somewhat cobbled together from the leftovers of the Schumann songbook.

The focus of this program is songs dating from Schumann’s Dresden and Düsseldorf years, during which the composer, faced with deteriorating health, tried to keep up with the radical changes taking place in German music, most of which originated with Wagner and Liszt. Critical opinion has long been divided about these late songs, which find Schumann working in a less strophic style and experimenting with chromaticism and continuous melody. While it is difficult to find a common thread between the twenty-eight selections on the disc, there is some elegance in the fact that many of Schumann’s late songs were part of the program on Hyperion’s first release in this series, recorded in 1995, which featured soprano Christine Schäfer.

The through-composed nature of these songs (pointing the way toward Mahler and Wolf) is well served by a fine arsenal of dramatic voices, foremost amongst them Müller-Brachmann, an ensemble member of the Berlin Staatsoper unter den Linden, who makes his Hyperion debut with this release. Johnson is firm and persuasive throughout in his sensitive, generous accompaniment.

Five selections from Sechs Gesänge (Op. 89), a cycle from 1850 that is roughly contemporary with the Third Symphony and the cello concerto, open the album with a big statement. Müller-Brachmann’s forceful renditions perfectly capture the often melancholy drama of these songs, and Johnson is careful not to let the thick textures of the music compete with Müller-Brachmann’s soulful voice.

Soprano Katherine Broderick gives a powerful account of Drei Gesänge (Op. 95), based on poems of Byron (in German translation), in even, measured tones. She has a sprightly voice that swells nicely with bright shadings, and Johnson matches her in bounce and agility. The last of these, the rousing “Dem Helden,” is performed in robust ceremonial style.

At the center of the disc is Minnespiel, Op. 101, for four voices, an eight-song cycle based on Friedrich Rückert’s Liebesfrühling (Love’s Spring). In the fourth selection, “Mein schöner Stern,” tenor Adrian Thompson is feather-soft and ardent, if a bit too yearning. Thomas and soprano Geraldine McGreevy balance each other out in “Die Tausend Grüße.” Here, Johnson appropriately takes a back seat and lets the bouncing vocal harmonies do their work. Thomas returns for one of the disc’s last selections, “Provenzalisches Lied,” from the cycle Des Sängers Fluch (Op. 139), which he attacks with an exaggerated passaggio that verges on parody.

A chronological outlier on the disc is “Sechs Gedichte aus dem Liederbuch eines Malers,” the last of the Lieder from Schumann’s outstandingly prolific year of 1840 to be recorded by Hyperion. Here, Müller-Brachmann seems to be distancing himself from Fischer-Dieskau (with whom the younger singer studied, and who recorded the cycle for DG, with Christoph Eschenbach). In these six selections, Müller-Brachmann is throatier and darker, and his voice wobbles in the lower notes. Johnson is a gentle guide through the music, even if the sustain is heavy at times, as in “Sonntags am Rhein.” Müller-Brachmann, in his rich and quivering tones, is less dynamic and lyrical. A highlight is “Dichters Genesung,” which is muscular and smooth. “Liebesbotschaft” brims with repressed emotion. Müller-Brachmann’s rendition is raw, with built-in vulnerability, which adds tenderness in place of finesse and expresses itself in some shaky melismatic moments.

The last track is “Handschuh,” Op. 87, a Schiller poem setting that is relatively without melody and contains no significant piano interludes. Its arioso-like quality is heightened by Schumann’s marking “Mit durchaus freiem Vortrag” (to be performed freely throughout), which gives Müller-Brachmann license to use much rubato. The music comes abruptly to a full stop with Schiller’s text: a simple ending that makes for an effectively understated coda to the disc, as well as to this massive project.

For Johnson, the completion of his Schumann cycle is a major accomplishment and a worthy addition to his discography. The lack of thematic focus in this particular selection of the material seems a minor objection in light of the beauty of these recordings. As added incentive, the CD includes a comprehensive sixty-seven-page booklet of song-by-song analysis and commentary by Johnson himself.

A. J. GOLDMANN

Here’s a quartet of reviews of from the current edition of Opera News. (www.operanews.com)

How about taking the most meta-opera out there and making it even more self-referential? That’s the approach director Robert Carsen took when his vision of Strauss’s Ariadne auf Naxos unfurled in February at Deutsche Oper Berlin (seen Feb. 19). This fascinating, frustrating, genre-bending work never seems quite certain about itself: the DOB transplant of this production, originally seen last year at the Bavarian State Opera in Munich, boasted a cast that far outshone the staging.

Lithuanian soprano Violeta Urmana fit nicely into the shoes of the strutting diva of the title role. This is a role she has sung previously at the Met. At DOB, her performance was distinguished by crystalline clarity and effortless volume. Urmana’s bright-hued timbre gave way to darker shades as the evening progressed, making for a richer, more involved performance, a highlight of which was a full-throttle account of the gently ebbing “Es gibt ein Reich.”

Ruxandra Donose made an even stronger impression as the impetuous Composer, singing with undeniable ardor, an attractively thick texture and a velvety low range, as in her compelling account of “Sein wir wieder gut.” The Zerbinetta of Jane Archibald was alternately reverent and feisty, as in her quasi-love duet with the Composer. And even if the massive orchestral force occasionally drowned her out, she tore through her vocally punishing role with obvious relish and assurance, especially in the extensive coloratura writing. She nearly stole the show with her “Grossmächtige Prinzessin,” which was here elaborately choreographed with various paramours popping out of pianos that glided comically across the stage.

As in most Strauss, the men of Ariadne play a decidedly supporting role. That said, Roberto Saccà was indeed godlike as Bacchus, singing with Italianate grace (and a pinch of schmaltz) that made the opera’s close more fitting and dramatically convincing. Met veteran Lenus Carlson was in fine form as the levelheaded Music Teacher. And baritone Simon Pauly did solid work as Harlequin, particularly in the tuneful “Lieben, Hassen, Hoffen, Zagen.”

Carsen, one of Europe’s busiest directors, is probably best known to U.S. audiences for his striking Met production of Eugene Onegin. In this Ariadne, he tried so constantly to break through the fourth wall that most of his attempts at abstraction ended up seeming bland.

The house lights stayed on for the better part of the Prologue, and various characters walked through the audience to make their entrances. The production, which featured sets by Peter Pabst and costumes by Falk Bauer, switched awkwardly between elegance and absurdity, an obvious mirror of the tension in the score between opera seria and commedia dell’arte. The self-referential elements — the large mirrors that reflected the audience, the exposed lighting and the completely bare stage that the Composer walked onto at the end of the opera, to be greeted by the applause of the cast — quickly grew tiresome. One bright spot was Marco Santi’s smart and edgy choreography, which livened things immeasurably, especially in the otherwise static Act II.

The evening’s maestro, Jacques Lacombe, had difficulty giving shape to the sinewy, often manic Prologue, the backstage drama that occupies the work’s first half. The directorial shenanigans did much to reinforce an impression of general havoc onstage and in the pit. Lacombe took much firmer command of his musicians with the opera within an opera, starting with a delicate account of the tortuous G-minor overture and not letting up until the glittering apotheosis of the closing bars.

Richard Strauss’s Salome is an opera as emotionally unhinged as it is daringly modern. So one was interested to see what Achim Freyer, the controversial visionary behind Los Angeles Opera’s new production of the Ring cycle, would do to Strauss’s debauched heroine when Deutsche Oper Berlin revived his 2003 production in early February. The production images available on the company’s website promised that the evening would have its share of strangeness, and they probably had something to do with the poor attendance (seen Feb. 1).

I too had my reservations about what a Freyer Salome would look like, especially after seeing his recent Eugene Onegin at the Staatsoper Unter den Linden — a visually dazzling production that quickly ran out of ideas. With Salome, I was afraid that Freyer’s extreme distancing techniques would preclude genuine involvement in the relentless drama of the music. But it was precisely this quality about Salome that enabled Freyer’s spin to work. The high drama and breathless pace of a score tailored to suit a preexisting play were well served by this oddball, kooky production. With a staging concerned more with interpretation than with mere illustration, this Salome did not waste time over details of decor —the color of the heroine’s veils, the verisimilitude of the severed head — and thus spoke for itself.

Freyer’s Salome left the music exposed and pure, placing more demands than usual on the soprano who dares to take on this killer role. For this revival, the ravishing Manuela Uhl took up the challenge. Uhl — who obviously had no intention of being erased by the abstract, cartoonish sensibilities of this revival — created a Salome who was raw, energetic and passionate. She has an exciting, powerful voice and enough stamina to make it to the end of this punishing role. Her singing was fresh and convincing, if not always the picture of accuracy. Uhl ducked some high notes and decided to forgo some of the coloratura ornamentation, but her biggest problems were a weak low range — she often resorted to speaking — and exposed passaggio. She also pounced on her lines with an eagerness that, though not always in synch with the music, made for thrilling drama. Despite the shortcomings of her performance, the bulk of Strauss’s searing music sounded wondrous and convincing in her mouth, and aside from rough patches, her voice rang out with incredible volume and clarity from start to finish.

Uhl was supported by highly capable colleagues. Foremost among them was American baritone Alan Titus, the intense, booming Jochanaan. Chris Merritt, a lyric tenor with a background in Rossini operas, made an unexpectedly great Herodes, bringing out his character’s buffoonery and perversion with occasional Italianate embellishments. As his cutthroat wife Herodias, Hanna Schwarz sang like an avenging fury. Clemens Bieber — a DOB ensemble member — was a sympathetic and convincing Narraboth, declaiming his soaring, urgent lines with both finesse and an appealing ruggedness. The remaining roles were perfectly cast, from the Page of Julia Benzinger on down to the two Nazarenes.

The staging was as baffling as it was entrancing. The set appeared to have materialized out of a David Lynch dream sequence and resembled some kind of industrial carnival funhouse, with its numbered yellow factory doors and circus-like stage area. Much of the acting consisted of heightened, repeated gestures that took on a ritualistic aspect. This was complemented by the extremely clownish Expressionist makeup. The costumes were likewise irreverent and colorful, consisting of hand-drawn pinstriped suits and incorporating a childish variety of props, such as balloons for breasts, funnels and sand buckets for hats. One of the best touches was to number each of the Jews “1″ through “5.” All this added a magical, nursery-like feel to the narrative. The one misstep was an underwhelming dance of the seven veils, which was so confused and pedestrian that one wondered whether Freyer meant it as a comment on the evidently weaker quality of that music in comparison to the rest of the score.

At the helm of the massive orchestral force was Ulf Schirmer, whose account of the score mounted steadily in intensity, from the opening clarinet scale to the bone-crushing chords that describe Salome’s execution. In between, he was sensitive to the profusion of motifs and the score’s shimmering, exotic detail.

With an extensive Strauss celebration underway at Deutsche Oper Berlin, Staatsoper unter den Linden got in on the action in February with a sumptuously sung revival of Nicolas Brieger’s production of Der Rosenkavalier, conducted by Asher Fisch (seen Feb. 21).

The most compelling reason to see this revival was the role debut of Magdalena Kožená as Octavian. This is a character that fits the Czech mezzo like a glove: her performance was an all-around revelation. She delivered her opening lines, “Wie du warst, wie du bist!” in soft, luminous notes of heartbreaking beauty. She matched the impassioned horns effortlessly, which is no small feat. Her richly textured voice communicated a dramatic range from ardor to impetuousness to despair and devotion. Every phrase was carefully thought out, with an exciting deployment of rubato providing added force to the fluency of her singing, which was free of any breaks or gasps for air. This revival also capitalized on the androgynous aspect of Kožená’s beauty, which only added to the completeness of the incarnation.

Every bit as assured was the Marschallin of Angela Denoke, whose tragically noble performance reminded us that Princess Marie Thérèse is the most complex character in the opera. Denoke was here both more aristocratic and more nuanced than in her 2005 Rosenkavalier appearances at the Met, which marked her debut with that company. A pitch-perfect companion to Kozená, Denoke wavered between the earthy and the ethereal, placing equal value on the mellifluous and dramatic aspects of her performance. Her full yet silky voice contained both laughter and repressed sorrow.

Bass Peter Rose, another Met veteran, was vocally persuasive and perversely charming as Baron Ochs. He switched effortlessly among the duets, waltzes and arioso that this difficult character is required to pull off. All in all, he was so rudely charming that he threatened to tip the opera in his favor.

Sylvia Schwartz suffered from a problem common to most Sophies — being upstaged by the titanic forces of her costars. Her light, pretty voice was far from slight, but it was still obscured in her Act II duet with Octavian and in the transcendent Act III trio.

The supporting roles were judiciously cast, with Paul O’Neill making a memorable impression as the Italian Tenor. Curiously, O’Neill came out in a wheelchair to sing “Di rigori armato” with requisite lyricism and fervor that won him peals of spontaneous applause.

The audience was less kind to conductor Asher Fisch, who took his bow amid persistent boos. Apparently, Berlin felt cheated by a performance that consciously sacrificed much of the work’s Viennese elegance for a courser, darker interpretation. From the weighty, muscular tempo of the opening bars and the lusty strings and winds somewhat obscured by the horns, it was clear that Fisch was intent on taking things in a different direction.

Brieger’s elegant production matched the refinement and taste on display in the singing. The direct, striking design brought to mind both Ruth Berghaus and Gilbert Defloe. The versatile horseshoe-shaped set morphed ingeniously from the decaying elegance of the Marschallin’s bedroom to the bourgeois trappings of the Faninal residence to the seedy inn of the closing act. The only false note the production struck was in the jumbled chaos of the Baron’s aborted seduction.

A. J. GOLDMANN

I am forever being told by veteran opera-lovers, “They don’t sing like they used to.” Perhaps this explains why certain works in the repertoire have lost their places of prominence or have been eliminated altogether: we simply no longer have the voices required to do them justice. Gounod’s Faust is hardly an obscure work, but the rate at which it is staged today is paltry when compared to the popularity it enjoyed before World War II. So it was thrilling (and transporting) to see a Faust at the Berlin Staatsoper unter den Linden so expertly sung that one understood the seductive spell it cast over audiences in the nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries (seen Feb. 22).

For its new production, the Staatsoper enlisted the talents of superb singers whose bravura performances cut through the dimmer inspirations of director Karsten Wiegand’s uneven staging.

Before the curtain went up, an announcement was made that two cast members, Charles Castronovo, the Faust, and Roman Trekel, the Valentin, would be singing despite colds. If anything, this inauspicious news only made the ensuing three and a half hours more impressive and thrilling. Castronovo, a New York-born lyric tenor, was somewhat throaty in the opening scene, with hesitant low notes. He was a bit off in the reprise of “A moi les plaisirs” with the devil, but he warmed up quickly. Before long, he was singing with heroic and darkly lacquered tones. He gasped certain phrases out suspensefully and projected others with an otherworldly quiver.

The sublime Russian soprano Marina Poplavskaya, best known to New York audiences for her performance as Natasha in the 2007 Met revival of Prokofiev’s War and Peace, was cast in the punishing role of Marguerite: she sang with fierce determination and unrelenting brazenness. It was a sensational performance, but one also worried about the toll that singing like that might take on the young soprano’s voice. She delivered an expressive and bouncy “Il était un roi de Thule” in a clear, restrained manner, then made a fluid transition to a wildly coquettish “Je ris de me voir si belle,” with delicious coloratura technique and an abundance of expressive muscle. It was but one climax in a performance with too many to highlights to enumerate.

As Méphistophélès, Réne Pape was — forgive the sacrilegious locution — absolutely godlike. He snickered and jeered though this wonderfully wicked role and let his character’s evil seep through most effectively in the quieter moments. His voice sounded effortlessly big, smoothly seductive and appropriately serpentine.

Despite his cold, Trekel struck the right tone as Valentin, his complex, robust voice communicating his character’s brotherly concern — as in his deeply felt “Avant de quitter ces lieux” — but also encompassing the rage and venom of Act IV. Silvia de la Muela sang Siébel with appropriate ardor and conviction.

Wiegand, a young German stage director who made his debut at the Staatsoper in 2006 with Maria Stuarda, provided an infuriatingly garish and amateurish Act I, setting the action at a raucous casino/house party. The noisy thrashing around brought to mind the rave that Calixto Bieito choreographed for his atrocious 2006 production of Wozzeck in Barcelona.

The casino set was moved away for Act II, which unfolded on a bare stage surrounded by silver-leafed walls — minimal yet all-around exquisite setting for this act that made the work uncommonly fluid by eliminating the need for clunky transitions between various set pieces. During Marguerite’s ascension, the walls lifted majestically to reveal the chorus seated at a heavenly banquet attired in tuxedos and cocktail dresses.

The stomach-churning touches of Wiegand’s production — Marguerite dashed her newborn’s brains against the wall and, in the end, slashed her own throat with a brooch — provided a jolting dose of realism to the otherwise abstract staging.

The version used for this production made the traditional cuts of the ballet and the Walpurgisnacht scene but included sporadic dialogue. Alain Altinoglu’s conducting was sweeping and sensitive. He made some daring decisions, slowing down to an almost dangerous level during the more introspective arias and favoring an all-around expansive approach that added an extra twenty minutes to the show’s running time. But then again, it’s hard to have too much of a good thing.

This just in from Opera News. Follow the original link here

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

While the quality opera at Berlin’s three full-time opera houses isn’t nearly as consistant as one finds at the Met,  the way opera is done here is a helluva lot more exciting performance-to-performance.

Since September, I’ve been a Berlin correspondant for the New-York-based Opera News Magazine. My reviews of Hans Werner Henze’s Phaedra, Telemann’s Geduldige Sokrates and a double-header of Strauss’ Elektra and Gnecchi’s Cassandra are already on the website (www.operanews.com).

Stay tuned for evaluations of Don Giovanni and Ballo in Maschera at the Staatsoper, Der Ring des Nibelungen at the Deutsche Oper and the Komische’s Theseus.