Hoffmann arrives, in the person of Benjamin Bernheim, who has sung the Gounod Roméo here, and seems to have established himself as the go-to tenor for the role of Hoffmann, and French lyric parts in general. I first encountered him in the title role of Bru Zane’s recording of the first (opéra dialogué) version of Gounod’s Faust (see the post of 6/19/20). I noted then that his voice was “clean, precisely pitched, consistent in vibrato,” and that it passed easily through the passaggio and “has easy command of the range.” I also detected a lack of passion in his singing, and found “nothing but clear speech” in his efforts at the dialogue. The dialogue problem aside (for he had none here), those pros and cons were evident in his Hoffmann, along with an often admirable elegance in his treatment of the music. There wasn’t a forced moment. But here’s the rub: this voice’s format is that of a nice comprimario tenor who has available to him a couple of steps above the usual range limitation of that type. It is smaller and less colorful than, say, Juan Diego Florez’ or Javier Camerena’s, to say nothing of that of that long-ranged master of the slender, balanced tone, Alfredo Kraus. Bernheim seems perfectly content with this situation and sings along easily within it, effecting neat shadings and diminuendi that would have registered their aesthetic intentions in a voice of greater substance; as it is, we note them with appreciation without being affected. Given this constraint, and a comparably graceful but modest physical presence, there is really no chance of his conveying either the ardently romantic or the daemonically haunted aspect of Hoffmann’s self. In any case, Sher has transformed the Kleinzach ballad from a sung and acted solo narration with choral responses into a  Broadwayesque song-and-dance number. The scene passes by without anything that sticks to the ribs, or that  sets up our anticipation for anything of more than fleeting interest.

Act One. As the Hoffmann of the opera tells us at the end of the prologue, the first of his loves was Olympia, and her name is this scene’s title. ^(I)Though there’s no basis in the primary sources for saying so, this is to me very much the Parisian episode, not so much because it’s often designated thus, but because its music most evokes the boulevards and salons of that city, and most conveys the grace and lightness of the composer’s operetta style. In the Met’s production, Yeargan’s set, practical enough in staging terms, glowers at us in a hue I’d call Campari Red, its back wall chockablock with objects whose intended uses I cannot discern from my front-row Balcony seats. We soon encounter the first instance of music that has been not added, but subtracted—as George Loomis puts it in one of the the essays in the Giroux/Kaye book, “inauthentic music that [audiences] are reluctant to be without.” This would be the above-mentioned Couplets for Nicklausse, and that omission is quickly followed by a second, Coppélius’ Chanson, “J’ai des yeux, de vrais yeux.” The blank spaces created by these excisions are occupied by a trio for Hoffmann, N/M, and Coppélius, during which (at least in this staging) the three sit around discussing the magical-eyeglasses transaction. As with The Muse’s song in the Prologue, it’s comparatively weak musically and can’t register its little dramatic points in a large theatre. I couldn’t wait for it to end.