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Intermission

A mortal creature is unique and once dead, it is really the end. The coronavirus pandemic is no tragédie lyrique; a deus ex machina does not appear in the last scene to save innocent victims. It just puts everything in a hard perspective. Immortal things can die too; but the good news is that they can always come back. One just needs people willing to give them life and people willing to be there and witness their brief appearances in the world of the living. In this moment – and nobody knows for how long – the spirits who inhabit the realms of opera and lift us from our routines to an upper level of meaning, feelings and beauty won’t be visiting us. In practical terms, this means some opera houses will probably end their activities, most of them will endure extreme difficulties and everything will be different from a while. It is not the first time this happens. In their biographies, artists such as Peter Schreier or Christa Ludwig tell us of the bombing of temples such as the Vienna State Opera, the Semperoper, the Teatro alla Scala, the Staatsoper Unter den Linden – and yet here they are, proudly standing in the world’s most important boulevards. In their various reincarnations, they have seen the twilight of so many gods and yet at some point they always open their doors to new generations ready to another ritual of music, theatre, literature and many other things.

I confess I was in gloomier mood, but then I was exchanging e-mails with my friend Olivier and he said something that set my mind going. Of course, opera houses will have hard times for a while and then they will realize they will have to adapt. Since the dawn of the Salzburg Festival and its increasing informal collaboration with the Metropolitan Opera House (those were the days when Dr. Böhm and his FroSch team – Rysanek, Ludwig, King, Berry – could always be seen both sides of the Atlantic), the world of opera has been dominated by star system. Theatres have been organizing their programs around singers (sometimes conductors, occasionally directors) who can bring people from all over the world and establish or reaffirm these companies’ international reputations. This is exactly how the audience buys their tickets – I myself browse their websites to see the next opportunity to see the most shining starts in operatic firmament and since time is money, the more, the merrier. Everyone of us has grown spoiled and used to “festival casts”. We expect that each of the great opera houses in the world is going to show us a Trovatore quartet for every performance. This means that opera has become a little bit like wine – you’ll have to fit in in some grand varietal, otherwise it’s going to be hard to sell it. So, after a while casts gradually tended to have the same taste everywhere. Of course, this is opera and people have always wanted to see the great artists of the age – the Adelina Pattis, the Jenny Linds, the Enrico Carusos. But this was before the airplane and, while the big shots were crossing the oceans, local singers had their opportunities to sing a big role and nurture their home audience’s tastes until a legendary diva would appear. But now let me concentrate on the world of opera just after World War II: opera houses destroyed, limited budget, some stellar careers interrupted (Germaine Lubin being always the most notable example). Management had to deal with what they had at hand. Conductors had to look for new people who often required some extra push to reach ideal performance level. In other words, ensemble performances.

I have recently mentioned here Elisabeth Schwarzkopf’s interview for August Everding, when she discusses the issue of Mozart performances. Everding asked her why the old Viennese performances were so uniformly excellent with people like Jurinac, Seefried, Dermota, Kunz. I don’t remember Schwarzkopf’s exact words, but her answer was: we were not starts, we were the group of singers chosen by people like Karajan or Böhm in order to perform their vision of how this or that work should go. All of them trained by the same guidance, singing work after work together. After a while, she says, they knew it beforehand how it would be. They knew each other’s strengths, weaknesses, peculiarities and most of all they had a clear vision of the frame within which they were expected to deliver. Böhm or Karajan or Erich Kleiber would always be there to remind them, that’s for sure. Beyond the Alps, something similar – in different repertoire – was happening at La Scala or in Rome, with full Italian casts who were nurtured together under the guidance of someone like Tulio Serafin. So here we are – less money, less flights, less willingness to travel, less members in the audience – and maybe there is a silver lining here. For decades, ensemble operas – Mozart most of all, but not only – have been the victim of star system. There is no time for rehearse, singers with jarring stylistic approach, lack of precision in ensemble etc. With less shows, house talents, familiar not only with each other, but also with members of the chorus and the orchestra, who knows what could happen?

The fact that performances won’t be routine as they have been might be a great difference for all involved, artists and audience. How often have we all spent money with expensive tickets, flights, hotel etc for all-star performances with a bureaucratic feeling about it? The Aida was singing Butterfly in Dresden the week before and will be singing Micaela next week in Vienna and she barely remembers where she is at this point and all she thinks is that she misses her daughter somewhere in Ukraine or Spain. Nobody wants the show to end too late, otherwise all restaurants will be closed, the orchestra has no clue of the reason why the conductor who barely speaks the language wants it phrased this or that way. I know, it is their jobs – and even if one loves his or her job, it’s essentially a job in the end of the day, but sometimes one just want to ask: where is the love? I’ll speak about a performance I never reviewed here. I was in Hamburg for the Ring and there was a free evening. As I know nobody there, I looked for something to do and discovered that there would be a performance of Bach’s Mass in B minor with the period-instrument Elbipolis Barockorchester in the Blankenese Kirche am Markt. I remember it was tricky to get a ticket, for there was no box office and I have to write to the parish. When I got to the church, it took me a while to understand that the lady in the “box office” (a table at the entrance), the ushers and the whole staff were actually the chorus members. Then I realized that they were no professional chorus – they were actually the congregation. Those who were not singing were watching. I was probably one of the few outsiders there. Of course, they could not compare with the Monteverdi Choir or the RIAS-Kammerchor, but they were so excited to be there singing Bach for their families! It was impossible not to think that this was closer in atmosphere (and maybe in standard…) to what Bach himself must have heard than the professional performances I have attended in the Philharmonie. So, yes, I hope that this time out will help us remember how important every performance is to all of us, artists and members of the audience.

In what regards this blog. In the beginning – in the times of the old blog – it was less about “reviews” but rather about sharing experiences, and that had to do with the fact that I had then far less opportunities to attend performances. I miss writing some essays – such as the one about Donna Anna and what she wants or that one about puzzling elements in Così fan tutte. Sometimes, less structured texts like the one about the Verdi’s Princess Eboli. I have to find if I still have it in me, but for the time I’m working on a project that was an important part of the old blog, the discographies. For the last 10 years, I have tried to revise and publish it again, but it advanced very little. In its original version, it involved almost the entirely repertoire (but for Russian opera and most XXth century works). In its current form, it has some Mozart and Handel. Some old readers (I don’t know if they still read, but anyway…) have asked me if I would publish them again, and the results are the discographies published in www.operadiscographies.com . They are almost of all of them work-in-progress: there are entries missing, some of them really have to be re-written, but I like to believe that, if someone checks once in a while, he or she is going to find something “alive”. I revise the entire text every time I add a new item and sometimes the inclusion makes me rewrite related entries. The Da Ponte operas are more or less in their final shape, but the German operas are being trickier than I thought – especially The Abduction from the Seraglio, which is in something like “soft opening” at the moment.

Finally, as almost everyone else, I have been watching lots of telecasts and broadcasts. I might write something about them, as I used to do in the past. Last time I did that was by the time the Met unveiled its new Ring. So it’s been a while…

Beethoven’s childhood is what one sees as the beginning of either a career as a serial killer or an insufferable genius. Fortunately to the world, he happened to become the most famous among all composers in the history of music. But the urge to inflict pain in those he loved was still there. That is probably why his music is never harmless, especially to those who are performing it. From that point of view, his Missa Solemnis is the musical version of an auto-da-fé: the demands are excruciating on everyone involved. Only yesterday, while listening to James Levine’s recording made live in Salzburg with Cheryl Studer, Jessye Norman, Plácido Domingo, Kurt Moll and the Vienna Philharmonic, it was impossible not to notice that even those formidable names had their share of shortcomings in it. I personally have never seen in the theatre an immaculate performance of that redoubtable choral masterpiece. Ultimately, it is a piece of sacred music where God is never entirely present – the spotlights are on man and their struggle to believe that it is not blind chance that rules the world.

The three concerts in the Sala São Paulo of Beethoven’s Missa Solemnis mark the beginning of Thierry Fischer’s tenure as music director and principal conductor of the OSESP. The Swiss maestro is replacing Marin Alsop, who had an important role in establishing the orchestra’s international reputation in high-profile tours.

Mr. Fischer’s approach to the behemoth is of someone who is less concerned about what is not there, but rather about making the best of what is indeed available. As it was, this performance did not turn around polish nor clarity. At first, during the Kyrie, the tonal warmth of the choral singing (the sopranos in particular) paired with the bright and lean strings in the orchestra promised something transcendental, but the Gloria established this as a rather muscular performance. The orchestra (divides violins, double basses to the left) worked hard to match the hearty choral sound, especially in the fast tempo adopted by the conductor. The rhythmic vitality is certainly welcome, but complex fugal passages like Et vitam ventura were on the impressionistic side. I have to be honest: it was hard to resist the sheer energy generated by the effort of meeting the challenge at all costs rather than rounding off corners. At the point the performance reached the Sanctus, the idea of animation started to give way to the emphatic, sometimes even the awkward. Fortunately, the Benedictus suited the means at hand – the spalla played the violin solo with purity of tone and the orchestral bright and light orchestral tone prevented a syrupy Romanticism that sometimes tends to  creep in. After that, the proceedings lost momentum and the Dona nobis pacem finally had rather a mechanical feel about it.

Among the soloists, the most “important” voice was Brazilian tenor Atalla Ayan, whom I heard for the first time this afternoon. His tenor has a warm glow to it and, although there was a splash of Verdi in his singing, he never refrained from softer dynamics. Maybe it is my fault that I’ve been hearing recordings with tenors like Peter Schreier and Rainer Trost , but I couldn’t help thinking that a less covered sound around the passaggio would have made the tenor part seem easier, more spontaneous and even more projecting. At first, German soprano Susanne Bernhard’s tubular soprano had a hint of a hoot, but she gained in strength and showed unusual control in the Benedictus. Mezzo Kismara Pizzatti must have not been in good voice. She failed to project her low notes and her high register was curdled and strained. Michael Nagy did sing well, but he is not the resonant bass this music requires.

Singing Schubert is an absolute exercise of discipline. It stems directly from the art of singing Bach. It requires instrumental poise, as if the production of the voice itself meant nothing. It requires full understanding of the text, not only in the sense of meaning, but mostly in the sense of declamation. In other words, how someone – a native speaker, for those singers who are not – would SAY this sentence. It requires an emotional connection to the poet and the composer that cannot be added upon the interpretation. It must be real – in his or her heart, the singer must know what every word is about. It requires a communication with the audience – this is an art of communion.

In her recital with Yannick Nézet-Séguin as accompanist, Joyce DiDonato did not truly fulfill any of these requirements. First, the voice – pure-toned and well-projecting as it is – was only occasionally made to sound natural. Her lower notes sounded either muted or puffed up for effect. For effect too, she forced some of her high notes and acquired the hint of a strain. There was not much in terms of vocal coloring, but dynamic variety was alright there, even if some piano notes sounded fixed and disconnected.

Second, although the use of perfect legato is not forbidden in Schubert (just check Janowitz or Prey), it cannot stand in the way of textual crispness. Ms. DiDonato has excellent diction, but the German text often sounded abstract, especially when the line is wordy. Her “unit of interpretation” is rather the phrase rather than the word – but in Schubert often the change of atmosphere happens mid phrase and one often missed that this afternoon.

Third, maybe I wasn’t drawn in by Ms. DiDonato approach, but I can’t say I felt an emotional connection in her singing. I did acknowledge the effects she selected in order to produce an impression, but mainly this seemed to be about her and her intention to expand her repertoire and show it to her fan base.

Finally, the recital seems to have been staged. The singer has a costume that suggests the XIXth century, lights were dimmed, she has a notebook that stands for a diary of the poet from which she barely took off her eyes. There was a chair and a table – and she often sat there with her diary. I couldn’t help the feeling that she was refusing to establish a direct connection with the audience. A friend was convinced she was reading the text and felt relieved when she – in Der Leiermann (i.e., the last song) – put it down. That was also the moment where her involvement took an operatic turn kept at an arm’s length during the role evening.

Some may say that the idea was giving a context for new audiences or showing these songs from a new perspective, but I’ll quote two female singers who achieved that _musically_ without the whole mambo jambo: Brigitte Fassbaender expressionistic take with composer Aribert Reimann and especially Christine Schäfer with Eric Schneider, who together add an indie/alternative feel to these songs without crossing any rule of Schubertian style.

At first, I thought that Nézet-Séguin still had his conductor hat on him when he started producing extra rich sounds that more than enveloped the singer. He would often give the cavalier treatment to Schubert’s delicate descriptive phrases in favor of a grand, almost orchestral playing. I tried to keep an open mind, but I cannot say I found any added insight in it. On the contrary, the end of Das Wirthaus sounded downright vulgar to my ears.

It seems that the world of opera will never have enough of Figaro. Mozart tells us how he got married, then Rossini how he came to work with the Almavivas. And Saverio Mercadante, with no help from Beaumarchais, shows us come tutto si cangiò two decades later. The Countess has given up being loved by the Count, but she wishes her daughter, Ines, has a different kind of marriage. Figaro and Susanna can’t wait to get rid of each other, and maybe she has a point, for his schemes have developed at this point to outright crime. And Cherubino now is colonel – and plans to marry Ines. Since the opera is called “The Two Figaros”, one wonders who is the second one – it is none other than Cherubino, who assumes the name of Figaro while he tries to figure out how he can win the Count’s consent for the wedding.

Mercadante is no Mozart and, if he comes closer to Rossini, the difference is no abysm, but a whole world. At least in this opera, he does not show a great talent for invention – melodies take for ever to take flight and, when they do, it is really earthbound. But he knows how to keep things buoyant and it’s all entertaining if very forgettable. Actually, the whole opera had been entirely forgotten after the intended first performance in Madrid in 1826, when the prima donna Letizia Cortesi proved to be more schemy than Figaro, Susanna or Cherubino and used her connections to have the performances cancelled after a couple of tantrums. The only extant complete score was found again no sooner than 2009, when it came to the attention of Riccardo Muti, who conducted it in Ravenna and Salzburg, producing a recording with a stellar cast: Eleonora Buratto, Rosa Feola, Antonio Poli et al.

The Manhattan School of Music’s production is the opposite of stellar – the cast is mainly composed of advanced students and some of the fun of it has to do with this not being another professional engagement for A-listers. Everyone involved seemed to be having fun and so the audience. Conductor Stefano Sarzani was able to serve this music all the energy it needed without putting too much pressure in his young singers and his small orchestra. As a result, nobody was caught short and the whole evening had a sense of spontaneity and team spirit. The chorus was keenly rehearsed as well. Director Dona D. Vaughn too proved to be very shrewd in choosing the right farsical approach that does not require true acting abilities, even if some of her singers did act well. The colorful sets were simple yet functional, as much as the costumes were appealing.

I was ready to write that having learned the work in Muti’s recording, it would be unfair to make comparisons with this evening’s cast, but that proved to be not entirely fair. For instance, today’s Cherubino, Joanne Evans was far preferable to the one in the recorded performance. Ms. Evans has a slim, flexible and fruity mezzo, sings with perfect sense of style and is a bête de scène. Under the guidance of the right conductor, she could be a perfect Ariodante or Serse. Although Carolina López Moreno (Susanna) doesn’t efface memories of Eleonora Buratto, the morbidezza of her Mozartian soprano is hard to overlook. And she has a charming stage presence too. The other singers in the cast all had promising voices and relished the opportunity of introducing this piece of operatic curiosity to the public in New York.

I have a friend who likes Richard Strauss but dislikes Der Rosenkavalier. He says it is Strauss’s most overrated work. The first time he told me that, I asked him what about the Marschallin’s monologue, the delivery of the silver rose and the final trio? His answer was “Precisely: you have to endure two hours of cacophony to get 45 minutes of beautiful music”. Of course, I disagree with him, but I understand that he has a point. The great challenge of conducting this score is to integrate both tingle-factor highlights and the Falstaff-like comedy scenes, exactly as the Leitmotiv structure concocted by Richard Strauss and also the mirrored Marschallin/Octavian and Ochs/Sophie situations devised by Hofmannsthal demand. Some conductors achieve that by Marschallinizing the whole opera, most notably Herbert von Karajan in his glamorized melancholy performances with Anna Tomowa-Sintow and Kurt Moll in Salzburg. Others Ochsify the three acts, by keeping things objective and kaleidoscopic as Karl Böhm, most notably in his formidable performances with Christa Ludwig and Tatiana Troyanos also in Salzburg. Both share the same secret ingredient: the Vienna Philharmonic. Some will say Carlos Kleiber could get the best of both worlds, especially in his last recording with Felicity Lott and Kurt Moll. He had the Vienna State Opera Orchestra (i.e., the Vienna Philharmonic’s day job) then.

I don’t know if Simon Rattle shares Karajan’s or Böhm’s credo, but he definitely does not fall into the Carlos Kleiber slot. At the end of act 2, I was about to say that he had to be classified in the Karajan group, for the complex counterpoint of the ensembles in Faninal’s Stadtpalais proved to be beyond his possibilities. And the fact that he does not have the Vienna Philharmonic made it more difficult for him. The Met Orchestra is not the nec plus ultra in terms of clarity of articulation, and its brass section has its bumpy moments. Sir Simon chose forward movement as his Ariadne’s thread in this labyrinthic score, but that often involved blurred orchestral playing, clouded phrasing and unsubtleness. If I could mention a composer in which Simon Rattle is at home this would be Gustav Mahler, whose music – if contemporary to that of R. Strauss (they knew each other, as a matter of fact) – requires an entirely different approach. Here I noticed that Rattle tended to look for a Hauptstimme, invested everything in it and let the myriad of secondary voices fall into place by themselves. That might work in the Lied von der Erde, but unfortunately not here. This is a score that has to be built brick by brick and not by assembling components. On the other hand, act 1 seemed more successful at first – the conductor was able to keep the aural image symphonic, with beautiful interplay between woodwinds and singers, but he had light-voiced soloists (or something like that) and refrained from pressing the turbo button when the music cried for more intensity. A similar effect could have been achieved by a flexible beat, but his one trick was rhythmic regularity. I wondered how the final trio could deliver its full emotional content under these circumstances. It did not. It showed no development in terms of dynamics, tempo or intensity. And then there was the problem with the cast.

It is a tradition to start with the leading soprano and so I’ll speak first of Camilla Nylund, who happened to be the most successful singer this evening. Ms. Nylund’s big lyric soprano, even in its prime, lacked radiance in its high notes. Above the passaggio, it acquires a velvety, floated quality that tends to stay on stage rather than pierce into the auditorium. In the role of the Marschallin, this natural float helped her all the way. Instead of shifting into mezza voce every time she needed to suggest pensiveness, she just had to keep doing her thing. And her middle register has the necessary warmth and plushness to suggest the chic the role really needs. There were moments when one wanted a little bit more pointedness of delivery or presence (the final trio, for instance), but her naturalness had a patrician glow to it and that made do. This Marschallin was above trying to make an impression. This woman was the measure of all things in her world.

I once bought a ticket to see Magdalena Kozena’s Octavian in Berlin but couldn’t make it and had never overcome the feeling of unfinished business until this evening. I feared that the Met might be too big an auditorium for her reedy Mozartian mezzo and my intuition proved to be right. Ms. Kozena is a singer incapable of carelessness – she sings every note and utter every word as if they were the most important thing in the world, but I am not sure if the audience in Family Circle could hear that. When Strauss requires the full orchestra, her low notes were inaudible and her high notes could be hooty or fluttery. When surrounded by chamber-like sonorities, however, she relished in poised phrasing and sounds of instrumental purity. In terms of stage presence, her Octavian was convincingly boyish and aristocratic. Her Mariandl, nevertheless, lacked the necessary tomboy quality. As shown here, the Count Rofrano had a natural talent to walk on high heels.

As Sophie, Golda Schultz displayed absolute ease throughout her whole range. She was hands down the singer with best low notes in the role in my experience live in the theatre. At the same time, she did not have to change any gears to float her high notes in the delivery of the silver rose. She sang from beginning to end with musicianship, abandon and charm. And yet the absence of silvery quality in her voice made her small-scaled and excessively discreet. With such a self-contained Sophie, the final trio sounded like a sundae without the cherry on top. I don’t think either that the role is close to this singer’s personality – although she worked hard to be the damsel in distress, the acting seemed to be build from the outside in rather than inside out.

When Günther Groissböck appeared on stage, I had to adjust my ears to the fact that, even if his voice was firm and solid to the super low notes, it sounded bottled up and lacking resonance. When I saw him sing this role in the Grosses Festspielhouse, it hardly sounded gigantesque, but here it made me wonder if the whole process of becoming a Wotan is really working. Back in Bayreuth in August, my impression was very different. So I would rather consider that he was not in his best night. Curiously, Markus Eiche, who in Bayreuth would never be counted as a forceful baritone, here – through clarity of emission and precision of focus – was the most hearable person on stage.

Der Rosenkavalier is an opera difficult to cast – the many small roles require important voices and I cannot say that I heard something close to efficient this evening. Matthew Polenzani’s Italian Tenor came close – he sang richly and showed amazing breath control, but the tone was far from ingratiating.

I had not seen before this evening Robert Carsen’s 2017 production for the Met, but it looks and sound as the watered down version of his 2004 production for Salzburg, where lots of ideas just hinted at here were fully developed. There, Ochs’s philandering is a façade for a mix of some sort of erectile and moral dysfunction, the Marschallin is a regular of the demimonde shown in act 3 and the ghost of World War I hovers around the opera rather than decorates the last scene. I cannot say I liked Carsen’s first attempt – I found it incoherent and kitsch – but it made sense somehow. The version “for all audiences” is incoherent, kitsch and silly.

It is almost unfair as a good performance of Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro is usually taken for granted. Asked about the starry casts she used to be part of in the Vienna State Opera, Elisabeth Schwarzkopf once said that those were singers who matured together under the supervision of knowledgeable conductors through a heavy rehearsal schedule and that it was only natural that they responded so immediately to each other and to the music. In other words, you cannot produce an ensemble out of thin air in two weeks. And if there is an ensemble opera in the repertoire, this is Le Nozze di Figaro. For this score to work, the sections of the orchestra and every singer in the cast must be well-integrated the same way the registers of a Mozartian singer’s voice should be. Nothing can stand out, it’s either perfect balance or fiasco. That is why I keep my expectations very low whenever I go to the theatre to visit the Almavivas, Figaro and Susanna. I am thankful for what can be salvaged and deem myself satisfied if I can remember two or three numbers that went really well.

Even in my low expectation policy, I expected very little of this evening’s performance. To start with, the sheer size of the Metropolitan Opera auditorium is a challenge in itself for a conductor to achieve ideal balance in scores meant for theatres smaller than the Met’s barn. Ideally, one would need singers of surpassing means and immaculate technique, an orchestra with extraordinarily flexible strings and a chorus of unusual clarity. The problem is: the house orchestra is not famous for clarity of articulation and the chorus is notoriously unwieldy. Conductor Antonello Manacorda had the difficult task of trying to make something really delicate out of inadequate raw material. Without considering the circumstances, the performance could be described as dull, unclear and inert. There was a high level of mismatches between singers and the orchestra, the playing of which was often poor in articulation and limited in color and dynamic. And things tended to be even stodgier when Mozart makes texture more complex, as in both act 2 finale and the finale ultimo. Now, if one considers the circumstances, if the musical side of the evening did not add much in terms of expression, it didn’t stand in the way of the stage performance.

Richard Eyre’s staging is hardly illuminating – I took a while to understand it was not Michael Grandage’s Glyndebourne production. There is nothing new or coherent or deeper than superficial in the Personenregie either, but – and this is not a small “but” -it was truly efficient. You may call it cute, unimaginative, slapstick, plagiarized (and it often was all of that), but the comedy timing never failed. All members of the cast seemed comfortable with each other, with what they had to do and they seemed to be having fun, what is a must for a comedy. I laughed, everybody laughed.

I have to be honest: I wasn’t eager to see Susanna Phillips’s Countess. Everything I had heard from her would not make me foresee anything of interest this evening. Porgi, amor has plainly defeated many a famous soprano and I braced for the worst, but Ms. Phillips – even if she and the conductor couldn’t agree about the beat – attacked her notes with surprising purity. The tone was a bit whimpery, intonation had its dubious moments, but she really tried to do the right thing. She developed steadily from her entrance. I am bit cranky about Countesses who don’t sing their high notes in the trio with Susanna and the Count, but the voice warmed to a round, creamy sound and, other than a wiry last phrase, her Dove sono was ideally sung. Again, she got a bit nervous with having to produce 100% pure tone when she forgave the Count for his bad behavior, but in the end I enjoyed her singing. Under the right conductor, she could really nail it. As it was, it was interesting and occasionally satisfying. Her Susanna, Nadine Sierra, was really in charge of keeping the plot moving and, if her acting was too pointed, she showed herself never less than fully committed. Her voice is not what one expects in this role – it never sparkles or gleams and she has the habit of stressing the last syllable of every phrase, even when it should go unstressed, but her Italian is usually believable, she can float mezza voce when she needs and her low notes are better than what one hears in the role. Even announced as indisposed, Gaëlle Arquez was a dulcet, stylish Cherubino, really at home in this repertoire. The three ladies indulged in discrete ornamentation.

Adam Plachetka had no problem in portraying the Count as a nasty, irascible master. Yet his grainy bass baritone seems to have lost some volume since I last saw him. And his singing tended to the emphatic in a way that tampered with legato. The stretta of his big aria was almost unmusical and his variations of what Mozart wrote felt as plainly wrong. Luca Pisaroni’s voice too sounded less spacious than what I was used to hear. Some of his high notes grated too and I would have mistaken him as the one with the flu. At this point, his Figaro runs dangerously close to sounding artsy,  and yet he is an alert actor and keeps the audience on his side. Brindley Sherratt was a forceful, firm-toned Bartolo, Meigui Zhang displayed a warm soprano as Barbarina and it was surprising to find Giuseppe Filianoti as Basilio.

Tchaikovsky’s The Queen of Spades was the first opera I have ever seen. Those were the days I did not care much for vocal music, but it must have worked it charm for here I am. Curiously I had forgotten about that until I got myself a ticket for today’s performance at the Metropolitan Opera. Until this afternoon, I had never seen it again – and the truth is that I can’t say I really like it. I find it a bit all over the place with its multitude of secondary characters who get to sing an aria, some of them longer than Basilio’s In quegli anni in Mozart’s Le Nozze di Figaro, and its cute atmospheric scenes (not to mention the intermezzo) that only let the steam of dramatic tension off. And yet listening to Rostropovich’s recording to renew my acquaintance with this work there was this moment during Lisa and Hermann’s first duet that did the trick for me. Lisa does not resist her emotions and cannot help crying. When Hermann sees that a woman he thought to be entirely unaware of his existence returns his feelings, he is so overwhelmed that he cannot even form a sentence. He says “My beauty… my goddess… angel”. Unlike the character in Pushkin’s short story, Tchaikovsky’s Hermann longed not for the money but for the girl. As the girl happened to be rich, the money was something he needed to get to her, but then the prodigy happened: he managed to won her heart in spite of his lack of wealth. She had fallen for his tormented eyes. Therefore, the torment had to go on – it was more than the bond between them, it was his very essence. He would perish without it – and so he does. And this kind of feeling, this is exactly what Tchaikovsky knew how to put into music.

If conductor Vasily Petrenko did not offer his audience that, one must take in account the forces available to him this afternoon. From the first bars, I realized that this performance would be very different from what one hears in Rostropovich’s Paris recording, where every chord is driven by some sort of force. From bar one and even through the children chorus and the ball scene, one hears that this is not going to end well. And Rostropovich did that with a subpar orchestra and a colorful cast. But that was a studio recording. Mr. Petrenko, on the other hand, is debuting at the Met and has a show to carry on. And he does it with a soprano new to the role, a tenor light for the part, a chorus not entirely at ease and an orchestra with limited availability for rehearsals. And in spite of all that, he offered a polished account of the score, the house orchestra particularly warm and smooth in sound, all singers taken care of and in the hands of a conductor sensitive to their needs, and one who knows the music from inside out, as the audience could hear in the absolute clarity and structural coherence of this afternoon’s music making. But the white heat, the paroxysm, the Angst, one would have to look elsewhere for all that.

Much has been written about Lise Davidsen’s first Lisa. She had been accused of not being Nilsson or Flagstad and now she is blamed for not being Vishnevskaya nor Milashkina. The problem with Ms. Davidsen is simple: music lovers have been waiting  so long for someone like her to show up on operatic stages that now that she is here it has been difficult for everyone to accept that her job is not fulfilling the fantasies of every member in the audience simultaneously, but rather serving music and text with her own voice and imagination. And I am happy to see she has been true to herself and is building her own career in her very own terms. Yes, Ms. Davidsen’s Lisa lacks the vibrancy and intensity of a Vishnevskaya or the plangency and roundness of tone of a Milashkina. To say the truth, she does not sound at all as a Russian soprano. Her Lisa turns around restraint – her sizable soprano kept in strict control throughout the opera. Both her big arias are sung with Schubertian discipline, her high notes effortlessly hit without showiness. It is almost a performance about what you don’t hear: the luxuriant mezzo-ish depth in the low register and the Valkyrian power in its top notes are at an arm’s reach, but kept under leash, exactly as the character in the opera, the girl who was supposed to go straight from the strict supervision of her grandmother to the suffocating affection of a husband she knows very little about until she finally succumbs to the vortex of passion and obsession of a foreigner in a world where she feels foreign too, although she was born in it. Yes, this is not what one usually hears in the role – and maybe the way it has always been done is ultimately more efficient – but in the context of this performance, Lise Davidsen’s subtle glow worked wonders. In terms of acting, she showed the same economy of means and would have been far more efficient if the Spielleitung had not insisted in some sort of fidgety blocking with no added insight. Her best scene was therefore the ball, where she moved with aristocratic poise, but oozed anxiety in every gesture.

Yusif Eyvazov’s Hermann is a whole different story. He displayed acquaintance with the style, crispness of textual delivery and even more than that – awareness not only of the dramatic situations, but also of the words in the libretto. In the onstage discussion after the performance, he joked about how his wife, Anna Netrebko, told him that his problem in this opera wouldn’t be what he had to sing, but what he had to act. Mr. Eyvazov is hardly a force of nature in terms of acting, it is true, but he knows what he can do and, within his possibilities, offered a vulnerable take on the role that makes sense to the text, but not necessarily to the music. When one listens to Vladimir Atlantov sing this part, there is not much room for subtlety, but the weight of a voice like that and the intensity of every utterance sounds simply right. Mr. Eyvazov is no dramatic tenor. He copes alright with the heroic writing, but the voice lacks volume and slancio to fully pierce through thick orchestration and, at the same time, is short on roundness of tone and fluidity for him to be called a “lyric tenor”. Although he has no problem with high notes, the voice lacks squillo. One feels something is missing, high overtones I would say.

Both Igor Golovatenko’s Yeletsky and Alexey Markov’s Tomsky benefited from firm, velvety voices, but Elena Maximova’s Pauline could have done without the harshness in her high register. Larissa Diadkova has stage presence and her low register is still imposing and fruity. Her approach to the Countess, however, lacked mystery. Normally, this is a character that seems to be made of a different substance from the other people on stage, but here she seemed very much like everyone else. It was also a good surprise to find Paul Groves as a firm-toned Tchekalinsky and Jill Grove relishing the competiton for darkness of tone with Russian altos in her short appearance as the governess. I cannot say how proficient the cast is in the language of Pushkin, though.

I won’t write much about Elijah Moshinski’s production. I would say that a traditional staging oughts to offer far more in terms of characterization than the pointless running to and fro seen here, but 1) one could say that this is not truly traditional, considering the stylized sets and costumes, but, anyway, it is lackadaisical and vacuous to a fault; 2) it was first seen at the Met in 1995 and it is difficult now to say what the director really accomplished back then.