And a reminder: On Tuesday, October 25, at 7:30 PM, EST, I’ll be delivering a Zoom presentation for the Jussi Björling Society on the subject of what I call the “functional technique” of this great tenor—i. e., what I hear as the underlying causes of all the wonderful expressive effects he created. Non-members can sign up for the event, for which there’s a modest fee, here, and may participate in the Q&A session during the final segment. The event will be re-shown on Saturday, October 29, at 12 noon, EST. Obviously, you’re all invited.
In the June post that effectively summed up my season-ending thoughts of 2021-2022 (see Where Are We?, 6/10/22), I spoke of certain principles and standards that I believe are the basis for responsible opera criticism. I also noted that the opening weeks of the Metropolitan Opera’s 2022-23 season are largely given over to two margins-of-the-repertory works, operas generally thought to merit revival only with the advocacy of once-or-twice-in-a-lifetime performers. Only Puccini’s Tosca represents the core repertory during the first four weeks, joined by Verdi’s La Traviata in the fifth. Though I might drop in on one or another of the fringe events if I hear trustworthy expressions of astonishment, neither of them seems in prospect to cry out for serious critical examination.(I) So it seems an appropriate moment to think about what is meant by “standards,” as applied to the performance of a core masterwork. With all due respect and affection for Tosca, I’ve decided to return to Traviata, the first opera considered in this series of articles, a little over five years ago. At that time I had to evoke a principle or two, since I was dealing with the Willy Decker production brought over from Salzburg, with its notion of circular time, marked for us by the dial of the mechanical clock, and with Dr. Grenvil stalking the action as the personification of Death. And my discussion of “standards” focused almost entirely on the role of Alfredo, and in particular on his solo scene at the beginning of Act 2. This time, I’ll give more consideration to the other two leading roles, and will reach farther back for comparisons.
Footnotes
| ↑I | Full disclosure: the Met’s season opened on Sept. 27 with Cherubini’s Medea, and to guard against a convenient dismissiveness based on faulty recollection, I re-listened to most of the 1958 Dallas performance. Yes: if Maria Callas were tearing up the pea patch in the title role, Jon Vickers were making Giasone’s stand-up excuses against her, Nicola Zaccaria were declaiming in sharpest profile as Creonte, and Teresa Berganza—though young and light for the role—were intoning the lines of Neris, I’d buy a ticket. But Medea needs that level of performing talent, no less, to amount to a nourishing occasion. And unexpectedly, a friend offered an excellent free seat for Idomeneo on the following evening. Worth noting: Manfred Honeck elicited an orchestral response with strong rhythmic bone, commanding shape of phrase, and intriguing accompanimental texture where the writing allows. He built the score’s lone passage of actual dramatic tension (from the High Priest’s entrance through Elettra’s “D’Oreste, D’Ajace“) powerfully. In the recitatives, though, there was neither strong enough harmonic underpinning nor sufficient evidence of productive work between instrumentalists and soloists to give the situations and moments the specificity they need to sustain engagement—a problem in last season’s doleful Nozze di Figaro, too, under Daniele Rustioni. And in this very different music, Federica Lombardi, though not quite nailing the passing C’s in the aforementioned aria, made a much stronger impression than she had with her recorded Desdemona (see Otello from Another Planet, 5/17/21). Issachah Savage made promising sounds in the High Priest’s allotted lines. |
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