Beyond these vocal unsuitabilities, there was an almost total lack of interpretive interest from either of these artists, or (more importantly) from the two together. I detected no repressed hunger, no passion held in check and then released, and no moment-to-moment specificity of intent. Appleby was preoccupied with the voice, while Leonard seemed to see Mélisande as an extremely polite, perfectly composed young lady intent on betraying no signs of emotion. In neither voice nor body did she seem committed to anything beyond an accurate accounting of obligations. And in the brief but crucial role of Geneviève, a contralto or deep mezzo part that relies on an unshakeable bond in the lower-middle range and a keen sense of austere declamation, Marie-Nicole Lemieux, making her house debut, sounded watery in exactly those respects, so that her probably quite sensible reading of the letter didn’t hang together.

Paula Williams was in charge of re-staging Miller’s production; as so often happens in the repertory context, her work didn’t seem to get beyond the basic blocking stage. I have written about this production in Opera as Opera. I don’t find it at all helpful, and could tell you why at further length, but rather than repeat my complaints and expatiate on what isn’t there, I’d rather explore what could be there. First, though, a few words on that potentially promising prospect. This was by a goodly margin the strongest reading I have heard from Yannick Nézet-Séguin. I thought the opening scenes were too passive (tip-toeing for the singers?). But by the (real) Act II, it became clear that an arc was being drawn. Acts III and IV emerged with impressive power and destination, the orchestra at its shiniest, and Act V was soulfully played. I was further encouraged to read, first in Anthony Tommasini’s Pelléas review and then in a Sunday NYT article by Zachary Woolfe, that Nézet-Séguin hopes to re-configure the balance of sonorities in the Met orchestra in a more bass-oriented, vibrant direction. He notes of the cellos and basses groomed under his predecessor, James Levine, that “. . . for years they’ve been asked to be as short and light as possible . . . and we miss very often the fundamental of the harmony. Whenever it’s a bit longer and richer and with more vibrato, it changes completely the aural spectrum.” I was mildly surprised to find N-S saying this, since I hadn’t heard this inclination in any of his previous work with the orchestra, but I assume he means it, and now that he is the company’s Musical Director, I hope he will find ways to begin to implement it. It’s not the only improvement that could be made to turn this technically superb ensemble into a great opera orchestra, but it would be an important one.

Now for some exploration of this odd, spellbinding work. Let me start with what is given. It takes place in an imaginary kingdom called Allemonde, in legendary medieval times. The kingdom’s ruler is the extremely old and “nearly blind” Arkel, and except for the opening scene, the action takes place in his castle (“très noir et très profond“) and its immediate surroundings, which are enclosed by vast, dark forests (there are places where the sun never penetrates), except on one side that faces the sea, whence comes light. Wars have plagued distant parts of the kingdom for many years. Arkel has a daughter, Geneviève, who has had two husbands. By the first, long dead, she had a son, Golaud, who is himself now old enough to have grey hairs at his temples and on his beard. By the second, still alive but mortally ill in an upper room of the castle, she had another son, Pelléas, much younger in both age and spirit. Golaud had a wife, but she died, leaving him a son, Yniold, who is still a child. At the start of the action, Golaud has been dispatched overseas to seek the hand of the Princess Ursula. Arkel hopes that this union will ease Golaud’s loneliness, and at the same time bring an end to the wars. But one day while hunting in the foreign forest where he does not know his way, Golaud happens across a very young, beautiful girl weeping by the side of a shallow pool. End of the Princess Ursula, beginning of the opera’s plot, which I will trust the reader to be up to speed on.