Aside from Netrebko’s contribution—that of a highly talented performer who seeks truth with the means of a modern singing actress whose grip on mental health seems pretty secure—the main excitement of the new Adriana was provided by the Principessa of Rachelishvili. Given the plummy tessitura and fairly basic technical requirement of the part, she opened up the lower range of her voice in a manner I haven’t heard in other roles (Azucena, Amneris, Konchakovna) and drove straight ahead, never recklessly but with the throttle out. It was immensely satisfying. This was also the most persuasive work I’ve yet heard from the conductor, Gianandrea Noseda—it had sweep and impetus, and the musicians sounded as if they found the score refreshing.
As I’ve suggested, Beczala’s Maurizio can’t ever quite thrill us, if only because the voice’s color spectrum is restricted and its upper range, while under control, never opens up into a freely ringing tone. Still, much of his singing is enjoyable—smooth, on pitch, and within its framework capable of nice dynamic variation. His stage presence is much the same: not highly charged or captivating, but always presentable. This production presents Michonnet not just as old enough to be Adriana’s father, but easily her grandfather. This idea (surely the director’s?) is pursued appealingly enough by Ambrogio Maestri, but it rather robs the role of its energy in both its stage-managerial and at-least-remotely-plausible-romantic aspects. His singing was warm enough and ample enough, but got into the top notes rather clumsily. Maurizio Muraro and Carlo Bosi were above replacement level, though not much more, as the Principe and Abbé. After so many recent evenings of undersung, underplayed character roles, it was a pleasure to see and hear the quartet of Adriana’s fellow thespians bringing some spark to their thankless but important assignments.
As for the production (Sir David McVicar, director; Charles Edwards, set; Brigitte Reifenstuel, costumes): when I describe it as “on the whole supportive” I mean that it allows the story to proceed its indicated course, is cleanly staged, looks rather handsome, and doesn’t fight the events or atmosphere of the music. This might seem the minimum to be expected of a Metropolitan Opera production, but it’s a minimum so seldom fulfilled these days as to call for champagne all round. This doesn’t mean there’s any lack of things to complain of. A couple are incidental.The bust of Molière, alluded to in the text as a furnishment of the Green Room of the Comédie-Française, is here stuck down by the prompter’s box, facing out at us. The reason for this evidently pointless notion becomes clear at the end of the first intermission, when a clownishly outfitted person comes before the curtain to pantomime a great struggle to detach it from its fastening and haul it off, whereupon the orchestra, in a bizarre non sequitur, embarks upon the embroiled little prelude to the Principessa’s “Acerba voluttà.” Funny, at least? No, though it got a smattering of laughs from nitwits strategically placed throughout the house. Then there was the Act III ballet (Andrew George, choreographer), mostly of a token sort except for some suggestive moves that I took for parodic, as did the gentlemen three seats to my left, who accepted the invitation to laugh heartily through the music at those silly old late-Baroquey folks.