Königin maintained something of a repertory presence for several decades after its premiere (Vienna, 1875). It had multiple repetitions during the German seasons at the Met in the 1880s, when the casts regularly included the Wagnerian stars Amalia Materna (The Queen), Lilli Lehmann (Sulamith), Max Alvary (Assad), and Emil Fischer (Solomon), under the baton of Anton Seidl. But it has become a genuine rarity, so I was excited by a chance to see it in the production by the Hungarian State Opera that was brought to the State/Koch theatre at Lincoln Center on November 2nd. And while the piece is surely an historical curiosity of first importance, it proved to be more than that, as well, despite some weaknesses in both work and performance. The score contains great riches. The writing for Sulamith is compelling throughout, beginning with the beguiling scene of bridal preparation and leavetaking of her female companions (we have “the maidens of Jerusalem” and “the wives of Solomon”) in the first scene through her passionate plea for clemency with Solomon in the penultimate one. Beginning with the Lockruf, the Act 2 encounter between Assad and the Queen is vocally persuasive and colorfully scored, and that’s true of their final meeting, as well. Most of the big grand-opera ensemble music is suitably impressive, too, and in places exciting, with solidly constructed choral setting that here and there rises to an inspired level. The work’s overall harmonic and timbral aura is appealing, and there’s a jolly ballet sequence.

What keeps Kōnigin from greatness is the ordinariness of the musical materials at a few dramatically crucial points. Assad’s long narrative of his Lebanese dalliance has some effective phrases, but doesn’t quite cohere; it would take a performer who combined the skills of a fine Jugendlich Heldentenor with those of a superb descriptive recitalist (the kind who can put across the largest Loewe ballads, say) and an actor of riveting presence to keep us on the edges of our seats. The extended monologue for the Queen that opens Act 2 puts a similar burden on the performer—its melodic ideas and dramatic development don’t sustain interest in anything short of an extraordinary presentation. The writing for Solomon is generic, as if the character’s general reputation were assumed sufficient to impress us. The finale of Act 2 (Assad’s wedding blasphemy, with its contrasts of malediction and calls for mercy) has some impact, but won’t stand comparison to the nearly identical situation in Tannhäuser, or the Cardinal’s anathema in La Juive. So as with a number of not-quite-great works of the grand-opera era, Königin’s fate rides on transcendent performance in our distinctly untranscendent time.

The Hungarian company certainly met most reasonable contemporary expectations, especially under the always nerve-wracking conditions of coming into a strange house in a foreign city. There were some memorable passages, most of them from the two female principals. Ester Sümegi, the Sulamith, poured out full, beautiful tone in her Act 3 plea, and acted the scene movingly. (Veronika Kincses, the Sulamith of the Hungaraton recording, also sings this well. And if you care to travel back toward the opera’s prime time, give a listen to Maria Nemeth’s soaring voicing of the scene’s juiciest section, “Doch eh’ ich in des Todes Tal.“) After a wobbly start, Erika Gál (the Queen) showed off a lush, plenteous mezzo. She was physically equipped for the role, and made her bait-and-switch moves with relish. The Assad was Boldiszár Lászlo, with a high-set tenor that seemed too thin for the part till he started popping out some on-the-button high notes; his intonation was clean and centered, his tone consistently firm, and the voice took on a warmer texture as the evening went on. Zoltán Kelemen (no, not the splendid Alberich, Klingsor, et al. of yore) brought a solid baritone of quality to Solomon’s music, but did not make much of the role’s limited opportunities to suggest that the figure might be a person.