Because of these facts, a sense of “style,” of a coherent social world within which the opera is going forward, is determined more by the director than the conductor, and even the flow, the pace of the performance (a primary responsibility of an operatic conductor, agreed?) at least as much by the combined work of the video chiefs (director, video director, and video editor(s) as by the musical one. The director/designer here was Jean-Pierre Ponnelle, at his most “conservative”—that is, the work is set in period (fabulous costumes), with the narrative intact as written and not represented as, let us say, Barbarina’s dream. The settings, though they are all variations on a single unit and as such lightly stylized, are basically representational. The conceptual aspect, or let’s call it the interpretive strategy, is not symbolic, but simply an emphasis on the darker underside of the comedy; the interpretive tactics, of staging and character behavior, are all intended to serve that strategy through searching for motivations for individual actions and attitudes, and showing us the search, making sure we see it being undertaken. Rapid-fire recitative is out as the basic medium of exchange, since its basis in the old theatrical understanding of who these folks are is gone. The characters must be seen to process the actions of others, and any changes in the group situation, before moving on. (I am not necessarily arguing against this change, just trying to describe it.) As in the work of so many directors of this updated stage world, Ponnelle feels the need to add explanation, to demonstrate, to leave nothing assumed, or to add something more to consider (there isn’t enough?), often in the form of an additional character left or brought onstage. (Examples: Bartolo hanging out during the Marcellina/Susanna scene, or Susanna back in the shadow of the Countess’ bedchamber while her mistress pours out her deepest feelings in “Porgi amor,” or Antonio running through in pursuit as the Count starts his aria, then a servant to help him on with his master-of-all-he-surveys coat while he finishes it.) There is a horror of the monologue, of any performer being left to deal with his or her inner life unassisted or unobserved (or merely  to focus on the act of singing to utmost effect), and of any action or utterance left offstage. All this is the Modern (not Postmodern) theatrical sensibility at work, in the hands of a skilled practitioner.

I once groused over Levine’s way of ensuring continuity (as in, among many other passages,  the Figaro Act 2 finale) by gliding on through points of transition or failing to observe momentinos of stoppage. Not here, because my attention has been shifted, and shot selections are guaranteeing all those demarcations, as well as many others less organic to the progress of the piece, because of the camera’s restlessness and inability to grasp the whole. The music is now accompaniment, not to the singers but to the camera eye. I also complained of the application of Levine’s modern ear, with its preference for transparencies over a gathered depth of sound, to much of my favorite music. Not here again, because the sheer amplified presence of sound gives it a “symphonic” sense of depth, and examination of independent voices is what modern recording does, anyway. So the performance moves well, if sometimes with the inevitable vidop jumpiness, and the orchestra sounds full and sharp.