Reviews originally published at Operanews.com

 
Manon Lescaut

BERLIN — Manon Lescaut, Deutsche Oper Berlin, 10/22/08

In the two months since the Berlin opera season got underway, there has been only a modest showing of big international names: Berlin’s three opera houses seem to be relying more than usual on their ensemble members. Still, there has been some star power in evidence here: the most impressive coupling so far has been Neil Shicoff and Cristina Gallardo-Domâs, who sang in Deutsche Oper Berlin’s four-performance revival of Gilbert Deflo’s 2004 production of Puccini’s Manon Lescaut (seen October 22).

Deflo’s staging is an odd mix of historical accuracy and minimalism: much of the visual excitement comes courtesy of costume designer William Orlandi (also responsible for the sets). In particular, the eighteenth-century wardrobe of the debauched aristocracy — including the opera’s antagonist, Geronte — is straight out of Laclos or Sade: the representatives of the ancien régime are represented as a bunch of lecherous clowns with poodle wigs and painted faces. Among the highlights of this production is the beautiful and macabre procession of fallen women in Act III; equally striking is the desert that becomes both Manon and des Grieux’s tomb, here represented by a small cluster of red rocks in the middle of a white expanse.

But as is the case in any revival of a popular work, the main issue here was the singing. Gallardo-Domâs and Shicoff had dynamic onstage chemistry and provided most of the evening’s vocal fireworks. Gallardo-Domâs, the Chilean soprano known for her portrayals of Puccini’s heroines, gave a wrenching performance every bit as compelling as her star turn in Anthony Minghella’s 2006 production of Madama Butterfly at the Metropolitan Opera. Her idiosyncratic, distinctive voice takes some getting used to, but here it served her well. Aside from a few outbursts that were too big, her singing seemed effortlessly supple. At times her quivery, emotion-tinged singing had a pop quality, but she managed to curb her more diva-like tendencies: her opening aria, “Vedete, io son fedele” sounded both noble and vulnerable.

Her des Grieux did not make such a striking first impression. Now fifty-nine years old, Shicoff showed his age, even more so alongside the wonderful (and young) tenor Michael Spyres, who was singing Edmondo. Shicoff is still capable of producing a beautiful tone, but his voice has lost some of its former agility: there was a labored quality to Act I’s “Tra voi, belle,” and the orchestra sometimes swallowed him whole. Early in the performance, Shicoff’s transitions between registers were uneasy, and he landed some high notes weakly. While Gallardo-Domâs tore through passages with near-reckless abandon, Shicoff seemed keen to slow things down, taking his arias with graceful maturity.

Over the course of the evening, however, Shicoff achieved parity with his costar. By Act III he sounded every bit as impassioned in his lyric urgency as in his famed accounts of Don José and Lenski. Both artists delivered a shattering Act IV that combined remarkably brazen singing with convincing acting: Gallardo-Domâs forced high notes out almost defiantly as she sputtered to her death.

Massimo Cavalletti was a smoothly powerful Lescaut; Stephen Bronk brought a wonderfully villainous tinge to the cunning Geronte de Ravoir.

In the pit, Patrik Ringborg led a spirited — if at times oversaturated — account of Puccini’s first popular score. The famous Act III intermezzo was especially accomplished in its balanced lushness.

A. J. GOLDMANN

BERLIN — Eugene Onegin, Staatsoper unter den Linden, 9/27/08

Freyer’s Staatsoper Berlin Onegin, with Villazón, Rügamer and Samuil © Monika Rittershaus 2008

Expectations ran high for the first new production of the season at Staatsoper unter den Linden — Tchaikovsky’s beloved Eugene Onegin, directed and designed by Achim Freyer and conducted by Daniel Barenboim (seen Sept. 27). Freyer, a Berlin native, is one of modern Germany’s most respected stage artists: perhaps best known in the U.S. for his Stuttgart stagings of the Philip Glass operas Satyagraha, Akhnaten and Einstein on the Beach in the 1980s, Freyer will take on the company premiere of Wagner’s Ring for Los Angeles Opera, beginning with Das Rheingold in February 2009. The Freyer Onegin was a collaborative effort by members of the Freyer Ensemble, the director’s workshop, which includes singers, dancers, acrobats, artists and directors. Freyer, who will turn seventy-five next year, was a student of Bertolt Brecht; his Onegin was in many ways a Brechtian take on commedia dell’arte — as if Jean Cocteau and Robert Wilson were to channel the spirit of Edward Gorey.

Absurd, abstract and occasionally beautiful, this production had some good ideas, but not nearly enough to sustain the entire evening. Most of the principal cast was onstage constantly, moving like zombies in clown-like makeup that matched the black-and-white color scheme. The only bursts of color came from garish neon lighting, most memorably for a macabre (and confusing) tableau that reappeared at climactic moments. Working with few props (mostly chairs), the actors pantomimed or performed intricate, ritualistic gestures, sometimes exiting and reentering in the middle of their scenes. It was oddly compelling in some places, irritating in others. After the famous Act I letter scene, someone shouted out from the balcony “Can we have a little action please? This is a drag,” which prompted a minute’s worth of chuckles, rebukes and whispers of agreement before the performance could continue.

Odd as the production was, it was also visually arresting: if it did not provide the optimal setting for Staatsoper’s impressive lineup of vocal talent, it established with integrity a striking — and not overly distracting — mise en scène. For the leads, Staatsoper opted to showcase three of its local favorites and import another star of international caliber. The evening’s Tatiana was Anna Samuil, the young Russian soprano who has been a soloist with the company since the 2004–05 season; she previously sang the role under Barenboim’s direction at the 2007 Salzburg Festival (see Video, p. 72). Samuil lent human warmth to a highly intellectual — one might say chilly — staging. Hers is a powerful, textured voice that evidently can’t really be molded into sounding delicate or youthful: her vibrato-heavy, urgent sound wreaks havoc with quiet, meditative moments. She took the letter scene slowly, her performance restrained and — in spots — even leisurely; when needed, she sounded brazen and heroic but also a little fierce. These qualities served her well in the final duet, in which Tatiana spurns the remorseful Onegin. Samuil’s Onegin was Staatsoper regular Roman Trekel, whose costume and stylized movements made him look like a marionette butler. He sang and acted a solid and occasionally sinister account of Tchaikovsky’s anti-hero, despite some muffled-sounding crooning in the lower part of his range.

Rolando Villazón provided world-class glamour and first-rate singing as the doomed Lenski. Like those of the rest of the cast, Villazón’s movements were severely constrained by the tight choreography, but the tenor acted so convincingly with his voice that it hardly mattered. In his early scenes with Olga, Villazón brimmed with youthful ardor; his fit of jealousy at Tatiana’s name-day party was white-hot and agonized. He capped his performance with an intensely delivered, unforgettable “Kuda, kuda, kuda vi udalilis.” As befitted the somewhat impenetrable logic of this production, Lenski walked around the stage long after his death: Villazón resembled not so much a ghost as a haunted puppet.

In a tall top hat and seriously exaggerated moustache, the luxuriously cast René Pape — a Staatsoper regular since 1988 — was completely unrecognizable as Prince Gremin. Only when he opened his mouth could one identify him by his unmistakably sonorous, mellow voice, here put to magnificent use in Gremin’s one brief scene.

In other roles, Maria Gortsevskaya, a Russian mezzo with a husky voice, made a feisty, sensual Olga. Margarita Nekrasova was affecting as Tatiana’s nurse, Filippyevna. Katharina Kammerloher’s sympathetic Larina rounded out the female cast nicely. The Triquet of Stephan Rügamer was light, breezy and utterly at home in this storybook world of puppets and pantomime.

Barenboim and the Staatskapelle gave a lushly Romantic account of the score, making it sound by turns majestic, tragic and pompous. Lenski and Onegin’s entrance, marked by a downward flight of notes in the cellos and double basses, was especially furious; the opening of the third scene, with its sustained horns and darting strings, was slowed to a near-amble. The sizable chorus sang from the back of the stage, while the principals posed and the Freyer Ensemble cavorted.

A. J. GOLDMANN

Despite a thoroughly inscrutable title (you know that there’s a problem when Anthony Lane hazards a guess at its meaning), I was pretty psyched for the new Bond film, having been electrified by 2006’s remake of “Casino Royale.” However, the barrage of negative reviews have pretty much drained my interest in spending $12 (NYC prices!) to see it on the big screen. Or at least so I figured until I discovered that a scene of “Quantum” takes place during a performance of “Tosca.” This scene alone might be reason enough to drop a dozen shekels. Enjoy!

New productions of beloved operas often turn sour when overzealous directors step in with one too many ideas up their sleeves. So perhaps it was for the best that Andreas Homoki, the artistic director of the Komische Oper Berlin, opted for a basic and scaled-down stage concept for La Bohème that, in the best possible way, let the music speak for itself.

One key to this production’s success was the exceptional singing from a young and energetic cast, who communicated the thrill and zeal of Puccini’s bohemians in a way that the clunky German-language translation often fell short of conveying. Another factor was the intensely concentrated work by the orchestra, led by the company’s music-director designate, American conductor Carl St. Clair.

The evening’s Rodolphe was Timothy Richards, a Welsh tenor with a deep, soothing voice. His sustained notes were a bit whiny and the orchestra drowned him out early on. But during the breakup in Scene III, he sang in a weeping voice with warm, dark shadings. Only once or twice did his voice grow murky.

Alluring Swiss soprano Brigitte Geller made a spirited, vulnerable Mimi. She sang with exciting and exacting clarity, even if her delivery became a bit too staccato at times. Her high notes were wonderfully sustained with a pleasant trill. St. Clair often gave her slow tempos, which she followed with full, sentimental abandon. In the final scene, her voice grew fragile, but not at the expense of audibility. The other principal woman of the evening was the Bavarian soprano Christiane Karg, who sang Musette as a Madison Avenue tramp in a quick, snappy voice as dry and as bubbly as the champagne they served at Momus.

Mirko Janiska was a tempestuous and stubborn Marcel. He was most in control during the stunning Scene 2 duet with Rodolphe. (Marcel dealt Rodolphe a slap for refusing to care for the dying Mimi.) He sang the duet and the subsequent quartet with a powerful, deeply moving voice.

As the other bohemians, Renatus Mészár was a throaty, vibrato-heavy Colline clad in a flowing leather trench coat. Günter Papendell, a bouncy, persuasive baritone, made a flamboyant Schaunard.

The opera was performed without intermission. Homoki kept the curtain raised on a completely naked stage, which gave his staging the aspect of a bargain-basement production. The one fixed prop was a massive Christmas tree that the chorus elaborately assembled in the second scene and dismantled at the opera’s conclusion. Homoki’s most innovative suggestion came in the fourth scene. Rather than set it in the old apartment of the friends, the finale instead unfurled amid a lavish banquet for Rodolphe, now a famous author, who was seen signing copies of a book simply titled Mimi. In seemed a suitable companion piece to Peter Konwitschny’s production of Don Giovanni, where the descent to hell was interpreted as a forced acceptance of bourgeois conformity. Less successful was the play-acting that the singers affected whenever they warmed-up for famous numbers, which may have been an attempt to inject some sarcasm into this irony-proof opera. The same goes for the baffling food-fight that directly preceded Mimi’s death scene, which left Rodolphe wiping eggnog off his head with a tablecloth before rushing to the side of his dying beloved.