Wednesday, December 29, 2004


Pardon the long delay between posts. In retrospect I might have broken the taxonomy down into five-posts-plus-followup. As it is I had to leave out for length reasons some of the examples I'd had in mind.

Meanwhile, your thoughts are appreciated. Comments about the blog in general can go under this post.


(1) Opera is a sensual art. This first of all. Anyone who heard her knew it -- the glory of the unamplified human voice. But also it's in sets, costumes, the orchestra, and the symmetry of a well-turned phrase or, er, (dance) turn. (Or --)

(2) Opera is a dramatic art. Never mind Kerman; I mean the energy released and channeled, between all participants, by placing performers among each other and before an audience. (Aristotle was an early commenter on this phenomenon.) Some performers are attuned to these currents and can conjure marvels; others less so. Ditto directors, and librettists, and of course composers.

(3) Opera illuminates the world, and one's experience in it. Ours, or one comparable -- in the smaller touches and broader. On this hook come the ridiculous contortions of "Regietheater", but fortunately that hasn't taken much hold here. We learn from how a performance shows the world, or wallow in it, or find it poorly-done, or just intolerable. (A friend finds the character Otello too blockheaded to be convincing, or sympathetic. I find Khovanschina shockingly close to an apology for Wahabbi theocracy.)

(4) Opera illuminates its own world: the history, present, and future of opera. Every performance revises all of these, to our delight or chagrin. A new work may be revealed, another incrementally forgotten. For those who keep track, an unexpectedly impressive debut may redeem a dull evening, or a favorite's missteps ruin otherwise great enjoyment. For friends or colleages especially. And even those far from "inside" are part of the history too, having been at that earlier performance when it was, you know, a Golden Age of this or that...

(5) Operagoing is a social activity, beyond and around the sitting-in-the-dark-as-an-audience part. This, oddly enough, may be the only definite idea most people have about opera. Still significant, though.

*     *     *

Now it seems to me that not only do we experience an opera performance through each of these lenses, but all of us have personal (that is, differing) tastes and priority-weightings as to every one. So one of us might find the most significant sense-element of a production to be singing, while another responds most strongly to handsome sets, and another to the sound of the orchestra. At the same time one might be most interested in the sensual aspects, while another seeks out the strongest dramatic experiences (by his lights, naturally) and barely registers direct sense impressions, and so on.

One problem is that a strong impression as to one of the aspects -- especially one of particular interest to the operagoer -- can make it hard to admit or even see the truth as to another. I've pointed to one example of this.

Another problem is that that current writing doesn't cover all of these aspects terribly well. But more in another post.

Tuesday, December 14, 2004

More shirtless emperors

Rodelinda may be the Met's event of the season despite everything. This Handel opera makes its house debut, and is revealed by a handsome new production and Harry Bicket's excellent conducting as a musical and dramatic masterpiece: a landmark, of course. The press sure thought so. And what a pleasure most of it was! Except...

Is it too much to believe one's own ears, and make the childishly simple observation that the "countertenor" voice is, by nature, monochrome? The peculiar falsetto technique now (contra this month's Playbill apologia, the modern crop shares little with Russell Oberlin's naturally high instrument) in vogue has yet to produce a voice with tonal variety or depth -- like, oh, Stephanie Blythe's. (She was in wonderful form, as impressive again now as when she stole the show as Orsini.) Perhaps that's why Handel -- despite their availability -- never used non-castrated male alto/sopranos in his operas, preferring women en travesti and tenors as castrato substitutes. It's been noted before, of course, and at length. But now, five+ years on, the taste-makers have lined up behind the innovation.

Stepping back a bit, it seems to me this is one of the less happy manifestations of the gay pride movement. How else can one explain the career of male lead David Daniels, who's brought this voice type to critical respectability and more? For of course a one-trick sound may still have a pleasant trick, as indeed Bejun Mehta's is (though it wore on my ear by the last act). But the Daniels voice is thin stuff. It is flexible, and he phrases energetically, but so do hundreds if not thousands of mezzos who can't dream of singing at the Met, much less receiving the lion's share of applause and adulation in a major production there. Daniels has virtues. He is approachably handsome, and looks good in stubble. He is an enthusiast for the art, and is versed in opera lore and history. And he is openly gay. This all makes him the vehicle for all sorts of audience needs and desires -- that is, a star! -- but really, one might say as much for Andrea Bocelli. How unfortunate that the latter handsome well-stubbled student of the art connects to heterosexual middle-aged women and not gay men! He makes more money, but is denied prestige engagements and reputation.

There is neither bad faith nor conspiracy, just intoxication for this avatar of a new virility (otherwise a strange description of Daniels' punchless instrument, which anyway sits too high for the Senesino parts he sings). We see it in the sillier bits of Stephen Wadsworth's generally commendable production: an overtly phallic memorial obelisk, oddly swishy mannerisms for Mehta's character, and an obligatory shirt removal for each countertenor. Those amount to little, but the casting of Daniels is something else. Especially while we're living in a golden age of mezzos. Are we to drop real voices from these roles because they don't look as suitable bare-chested? Opera fans tend to be aghast at such developments. And yet...

The faults of Renee Fleming, on the other hand, aren't systemic. The title role doesn't play to its strengths (too little use of her glorious top; the rest too often sounded constricted, particularly in fioratura), but hers is obviously a first-class instrument. When she skates by too much on this natural endowment, it's in a time-honored tradition of "stimm" divas. The published raves seem a bit much, but did the audience, even the droves who left early (10:30) at the second intermission, get from her what was advertised? More or less. I'm not sure one can say the same wrt Daniels.

Lost and (judging from applause) underappreciated among these reputations was the tenor Kobie van Rensburg, making his debut run at this house. He had a healthy natural sound, fluent coloratura technique, and handled the wide-ranging drama of the part very well. A nice change from the wooly or ugly-but-interesting singers too often heard in his fach. He, with the aforementioned Blythe and the always-reliable John Relyea, provided a core of excellent singing that sustained this event.

In fact everyone but the two "stars" acquitted themselves well here. But even their failure doesn't wholly mar Handel's genius, not with the excellent production and conducting the Met provides to frame this work. And if therefore this is still the event of the season to date, perhaps a kind thought is in order for hype and reputations, however acquired. Would we have gotten the hundreds-of-years-belated debut of this masterpiece without them?

Still, for a revival... Oops, more countertenors. Ah well. I'd love to see Kasarova as Bertarido, if they could get her to appear without cancelling. On a stage, she's twice the man Daniels is (sometimes unfortunately).

Sunday, December 12, 2004

To begin

Opera is not my life, though perhaps it has been in the past. I do not sing. I've met fans -- amateurs -- who spend half their evenings at some live event or other. (Judging by the internet, they're not wild outliers.) I doubt I've ever topped fifty in a year: the compulsion ebbs and flows, as do external circumstances. Many of my friends are peripherally interested in the art; others more interested I see infrequently.

Still, the operatic stage seems to me an exemplary place, that is to say rewarding to approach. The rest follows.