I had worked with Diana Burleigh, our director, once before, in Iolanthe in 2005. I therefore knew enough to be excited at the chance to work with her again, in a more significant capacity: Diana is both pleasant and fun to work with, and extremely competent. She had an interesting concept for this production: we restored some of Tennyson’s prologue from ‘The Princess’ (the original source material for Ida) and made a pre-overture prologue in which a family party gave way to a fun game of make-believe, in which we acted out the story of Ida. I thought this was a particularly apt choice, in that it made the romance of Hilarion and Ida (Walter, Jr. and Lilian) more sensible and sensitive, and also blunted some of the jarring apparent sexism in the original.

The principle cast, I thought, was outstanding. It was:

• Leon Berger, Hildebrand
• Peter Büchi, Hilarion
• Christopher Diffey, Cyril
• Jonathan Ichikawa, Florian
• Sam Silvers, Gama
• Tony Smith, Arac
• Stuart Pinel, Guron
• Stephen Hill, Scynthius
• Jane Brendler Büchi, Ida
• Julie May, Blanche
• Vikki Willoughby, Psyche
• Christine St. Pierre, Melissa
• Meriel Bartlett, Sacharissa
• Mary Finn, Chloe
• Carol Davis, Ada

Leon, Peter, and Christopher, in particular, were delightful and exciting to work with. They all had a tremendous amount of experience and talent. Much of Florian’s business, if you know Ida, is with Hilarion and Cyril, so I was working closely with those two excellent tenors quite a lot. Here are our two trios:

• Gently, gently
• I am a maiden

One interesting performing insight I got from so much trio work is that it’s particularly important to plan carefully, and to watch one another — more so with trios than with other configurations. Typically, when you’re performing, some movements are explicitly planned and directed, and others are improvised or spontaneous, or at least self-generated. If you have a whole chorus, certain moves are all together, and other decisions, like what direction to look, or how to hold your hands, are made at an individual level. Likewise with a solo or a duet. But with a trio, the spontaneous bits must be handled with care: for if two of the three make the same decision, the third looks like he’s doing it wrong. It’s like ‘Set’ — you want them all different or all the same.Here are some pictures from this production on facebook:

• Act I
• Act II (1)
• Act II (2)
• Act III

It took me a while to settle into the role.  The director gave principals a considerable extent of free reign over character decisions, and it took me several days to figure out what Deadeye is thinking about, what’s important to him, how he moves, how he interacts with the other crew, etc. (Several days is a long time in Buxton-time; we’re rehearsing eight-hour days, and we only have eight of them; we show up off-book and piece the show together very quickly.  So when I say I took several days to get into Deadeye, I mean I didn’t do so until a couple of days before closing night, which is also opening night.) My Deadeye was a bit of an unusual one; more misfit than threatening. I’m younger than the usual DD, and average-sized — I usually think of Deadeye as being a large man, although not everyone I’ve spoken to agrees.

I decided to make him less threatening and nasty, and more awkward and outcast. I think this helps to bring out some of the humor in the role — it emphasizes how arbitrarily his shipmates shun him and his ideas. I think that Dick Deadeye is one of Gilbert’s more interesting ideas — in all three of his Act I dialogues, he listens to a conversation, then jumps in to agree with what’s already been said — but of course it sounds so much more shocking from him that everybody shuns him along with the idea.  Here’s the purest distillation of it:

Boatswain:  Ah, my poor lad, you’ve climbed too high: our worthy captain’s child won’t have nothin’ to say to a poor chap like you.  Will she, lads?
All: No, no.
Deadeye: No, no, captains’ daughters don’t marry foremast hands.
All (recoiling from him):  Shame! shame!
Boatswain: Dick Deadeye, them sentiments o’ yourn are a disgrace to our common natur’.

It’s a really neat idea, but I think Gilbert may have been too subtle with it.  Certainly, he did not develop it as much as he might’ve. One might say the same of my performance.

Most of the role sits a little low for me, vocally, but I managed ok. His ensemble work is surprisingly high.

There are some pictures of the production here and here.

I’ll start with the big one. The relationship between Carmen and Don Jose was weird. Ryan MacPherson, their Don Jose, was young and on the dashing side; at points, I was convinced that they were playing at an epic romance. Two bars into “La fleur que tu m’avais jetée”, Carmen’s icy demeanor seemed to have melted into an “aww, he really likes me!” face, and at the end of Jose’s declaration of total batshit obsession, he went in for a tender kiss, and appeared to be warmly received, although to be honest, it was hard to tell because her back was for some reason facing the audience at that point. So they kissed for a while before Carmen changed her mind and said how if you REALLY loved me, you’d run off with me, so go away please, I hate you.

The last (and first!) time I saw Carmen, with Opera Delaware, I thought the characterizations in this scene worked quite a lot better. Carmen had this sort of “ok, do I REALLY have to sit here and listen politely to this? Ok, FINE” expression, which is way more plausible. The way I see it, the interesting thing about Carmen and Jose’s relationship is that by the time he wants to go join in the bugle retreat, everybody in the whole world except for Jose knows that this relationship is just a terrible idea. That was lost in this production, which seemed ambivalent about whether it thought those crazy kids could really make it. The weird extended romance continued; they share a passionate kiss at the end of Act III, after his decidedly unenthusiastic joining of the gang.

Kendall Gladen’s Carmen’s, on the whole, lacked a lot of the fire that it can have. Too often, she shrank away, averted her eyes, and adopted a submissive attitude. The first three times that Jose started getting violent and yelling at her, she curled away from him like, if you’ll forgive the expression, a woman; only the last time, when the libretto calls for her to express fearlessness, do we see anything approaching defiance in her face. She had a very fine voice, though. And I should be clear — with the (admittedly major) exception of her responses to Don Jose, her acting was good too. The Habanera, and pretty much all of Act I, was excellent, I thought. She carried herself well and oozed sexual power.

One of my favorite scenes is when Carmen dances for Don Jose in Act II. The combination of voice, dance, castanets, and trumpet is just fascinating in how well it all fits together. But tonight, Carmen didn’t have castanets. Neither were castinets supplied by the orchestra. Instead, Don Jose picked up a guitar that was sitting nearby, turned it face-side-in on his lap, and absentmindedly THUMPED his hands against it, thumping out the rhythm of the castanet clicks. I wish I could convey through text the extent to which guitar-thumps, in the relevant context, are poor substitutes for castanet clicks.

The choreography throughout seemed rather static. There were lots of arm and foot movements in the big gypsy scenes — but pretty much everybody stayed in his or her own spot on stage. Maybe there was limited rehearsal time for choreography, but some of those scenes, particularly in Act II, did get visually dull.

There was a very odd decision made regarding the ending. Don Jose produces a very large, very shiny knife, and raises it, apparently intending to kill Carmen. (”Ooh,” I think, if that’s a retracting knife, it’s the best one I’ve ever seen. Or will they use some stage trick to stab her behind her body or something?”) He comes up to her from behind, and raises the knife, and prepares to strike. She gives the knife a “oh, you’re a lame knife, I distain you!” look, and then looks him in the eyes, like, “so you gonna do it, or what?”, and it’s actually pretty cool. Great acting from Gladen at this moment. And THEN, Don Jose turns and looks at the knife, too, and he’s like, “who am I kidding, I’m not gonna stab her.” And then he DROPS the knife! Whoa! This is sort of interesting, and maybe psychologically plausible, but I know how this opera ends. Is he going to pick the knife back up? So I’m thinking, what NOW??? And Carmen turns to walk away. Don Jose leaves the knife lying on the ground and casually pulls a large pistol out of his trousers and shoots her in the back. I didn’t really see the point of making this the Carmen where he shoots her; it seemed a little non sequitor. Maybe I just didn’t get it.

Oh yeah, and then the crowd couldn’t be bothered to enter again, so Jose sings to the empty stage about how he’s the one who killed her, so go ahead and arrest him. Weird.

I’ve been harsh so far, because many of the things I care most about disappointed. But others were good. And I know, it’s opera, but this is a very drama-driven opera, and the directorial departures from the libretto were deliberately made. So I think this is fair game for criticism.

One more odd choice along these lines, back in Act I. Carmen has given Don Jose the rose, and he’s intoxicated by her, and then Michaela and mum bring him back to his senses. He sings about how that was a narrow escape, and then picks up the rose and raises his arm as if angrily to fling it away, when he is interrupted by the cigarette-girl fight. Now, Jose has decided he’s through with Carmen, and he’s literally begun the physical act of throwing her rose away — but now, interrupted, he doesn’t finish the arm movement to throw it away. Nor does he just drop it disinterestedly. Instead, he catches himself, carefully puts the rose into his pocket, and goes curiously to investigage the disturbance. This sequence just didn’t seem thought through. I couldn’t make sense of Jose’s psychology at that point.

The quality of the singing was, on the whole, strong. Carmen’s rich, warm, sexy voice was just right (although once or twice it got buried in ensembles), and Don Jose had a bright high tenor with easy access to the upper range. Escamillo — Eugene Brancoveanu — had the kind of large, warm and round baritone voice that I always envy. His acting was charming and good, too — he had a bit of a baby face, but his presence and voice won out. Rebecca Garcia’s Micaëla had a pleasant presence and a nice voice, although I think the role might’ve been a bit much for her at points. The smaller roles were all excellent; Zuniga and Frasquita, I thought, were the two standouts from that crowd. I believe that some of their material was cut.

The quintet was really excellent, and quite fast. It didn’t sound half as hard as I know it is. Bryan Nies, the conductor, seemed to have done an excellent job.

One staging bit that worked well was in the card scene; Carmen laid out her cards alone, separated from everyone else, who did not notice her. This made for a nice juxtaposition, and avoided the awkward question why Carmen’s friends don’t seem to share in her concern.

The Trial cast was:

• Stephen Quint, Judge
• Joanne Lessner, Plaintiff
• Peter Buchi, Defendant
• Jonathan Ichikawa, Counsel
• Louis Dall’Ava, Usher
• Jane Buchi, First Bridesmaid
• Eric Peterson, Foreman

The music director and accompanist was Steve Vasta.

Everything went smoothly, and I believe that everyone had a great time.  I know I did!  This was the sort of event that makes me sit up and say, “I wish I did things like this more often!”

It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen.  If I hadn’t already decided earlier this year that I was pretty interested in opera, this definitely would have made it happen.  Hvorostovsky has been, only through recordings, my favorite singer and vocal idol, and I was excited for a chance to see him actually perform a role.  Various reviews I’ve read say things like, “this is the role he was born to play,” which sounds pretty plausible to me.  He was vocally as incredible as I would have hoped (and wow, he really just does have some ridiculously amazing breath support), but I didn’t know he would be as dramatically phenomenal as he was.  There’s a stereotype of opera singers as unable to act, and sometimes I can see why — the Met Puritani (Netrebko excepted) comes to mind — but this production exhibited truly phenomenal acting as well as singing.  As in, literally among the best acting I’ve ever seen in any medium.  I don’t know how you’d make it better.

I know (barely) enough about the opera world at this point to know that Renee Fleming is something of a controversial performer, and that at least a significant minority (maybe more?) of fans and critics don’t care for her.  This was my first time seeing her (assuming television Mormon Christmas specials don’t count), but I thought she was superb.  I took a little while to warm up to her, and there was a minute about halfway through her letter-wring aria when I was bored.  I’m surprised at myself for that minute now, in retrospect — I suspect my mind just wandered.  By the end of the aria I realized that it was amazing.  Her final scene with Onegin seemed to me to be perfection.
The other thing that really struck me about this Onegin was just how powerful a story it is.  I didn’t feel at all like what seems to be the prototype in non-comic opera.  People aren’t killing lovers in fits of rage, or slowly and inevitably dying while savoring last moments of love.  This was just a realistic and sad and excellent love story, where we relate to all the characters, and all the decisions, and see how they lead to the very sad, but not tragic, ending.  Tchaikovsky (I spelled it right on my first try!  Rule!) adapted the opera from a verse novel, which I’m sure was superb.

At this moment, Eugene Onegin is my favorite opera. But I know that I was lucky enough to see a phenomenal production of it, and also that there is so very, very much left for me to explore and discover.

I was surprised when I looked at the cast list and saw Sara Jakubiak’s name for Mimi. I knew Sara back in Midland; we were in a production of H.M.S. Pinafore together in 2000. (Once I have that particular bit of archive up I’ll link to it here!) She was excellent back then; I’m pleased to see that her singing career is taking off. Sadly, I didn’t see her in this production, which was dual-cast; I saw the other Mimi.

Caroline, my friend from college, was playing the violin in the pit.
Here are pictures from the program. I particularly like the program cover.

EDIT: My scanner is being tempermental; here is just the cover and my ticket stub; I’ll include a few more pages, including the cast list, later.

But I meant to be talking about this production of La Traviata. Like most Americans, I’ve been peripherally exposed to many of the famous opera themes in various out-of-contexts, including television commercials and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I didn’t realize how many of the familiar tunes come from Traviata.

I knew that Moulin Rouge was based on Traviata, but I didn’t realize how closely it remained; I pretty much recognized scene by scene.

I feel like I should have more to say about this, but nothing’s coming out right now. Maybe later. In the meantime, here are some pictures.

In the 45 minutes or so that I saw, though, I did get a few impressions. Anna Netrebko, singing Elvira, pretty much ruled. I thought she was phenomenal. She also appeared to be the only member of the cast who was doing any acting; that was weird. I felt bad for her; she was emoting like crazy to her tenor, who never even made eye contact with her. I guess you can get away with that when you’re performing at the Met; people can’t see your eyes. But when you’re being broadcast around the world in hi-def, it’s pretty glaringly noticable.

God, some of the staging was horrific. Slow, stationary, and unmotivated. I get the idea of the music being the highest priority, but still. There’s a reason this is a staged opera; I can listen to it on my ipod at home. Which, incidentally, I’m doing right now. Some of the music is very fine.

I am sorry I missed the rest of it; the last thing I saw was the duel between Riccardo and Talbot. But seriously: how cool is it that you can tell just by the names which one is the heroic tenor and which one is the dastardly baritone?

The cast for this group was excellent. It was:

DOROTHY VERNON - Katie Holler
LADY VERNON- Megan Friar
DORCAS - Irma Obal Lucca
NANCE - Frances Yasprica

JOHN MANNERS - David Root
OSWALD - Paul Sigrist
RUPERT - Jonathan Ichikawa
SIR GEORGE VERNON - Richard Holmes
McCRANKIE - Philip Sternenberg

Megan, Richard, David, and Paul are professionals; I’d seen David’s Fairfax and Paul’s Physician with NYGASP the previous month (both excellent). And Richard has been on my short list of performing heros since I first saw his Captain Corcoron in Buxton in 2004. So it was an honor (and an intimidation!) to be singing with these fine people.

In the end, I felt that things came together reasonably well. The chorus bits were the weakest, because they are hardest to coordinate on minimal rehearsal. But I think that we got the piece across reasonably well. Richard says that Haddon Hall is more opera than operetta; I’m inclined to agree. One of my favorite moments of the evening was his duet with Megan, “Alone, alone!…Bride of my youth”. It was really beautiful and touching.

My character, Rupert, was something of an odd one, but I really enjoyed it. Some of his music suited me pretty well, I think — I will save his first patter song for the inevitable G&S audition that wants something that isn’t G&S.

Here are the excellent program notes, provided by our expert pianist and co-organizer (with M.D. Dan Kravitz):

HADDON HALL is a manor house located near Bakewell in Derbyshire, England in the Peak District, about 14 miles from Buxton. The house sits on a rock outcropping and is privy to gorgeous vistas. Portions of it date back to the 12th Century, but more date to the Tudor period. The house stood vacant for nearly 200 years, from the 1700s until the 1920s, and thus escaped the destructive remodeling many other older structures endured in the 18th and 19th centuries; it is one of the finest extant examples of medieval and Tudor construction. It was carefully restored in the 20th Century. Haddon Hall belongs to the Manners family; the current holder is Edward, Duke of Rutland. (At the time of the opera, the hereditary rank was Earl of Rutland.) [There was also a picture of the house on the cover.]

THE OPERA is based on a real incident, the elopement of Dorothy Vernon, actually the second daughter of Sir George and Lady Vernon, then the owners of Haddon Hall, with John Manners, in 1563. (Several architectural features of the house bear her name, most notably the door through which she left when she eloped.) In constructing the libretto, Grundy took considerable liberties with history, such as inventing a dead son for the Vernons and leaving Dorothy as their only child, but most notably moving the action forward in time by a century so that he could include the Puritans and Roundheads of that era for broad comedic effect and utilize the restoration of the monarchy to help resolve his plot. By this time in theatrical history (1892), light operas were vying for audience with the emergent musical comedy genre that would come to dominate the 20th Century stage, and there was quite a bit of cross-pollination. The inclusion of the completely extraneous comedic Scottish character, McCrankie, is an example of this. Various ethnic types would be a low-comedy feature of musical theatre as well as vaudeville and music hall until the middle of the 20th Century and the advent of modern “PC” thinking.

SULLIVAN CHRONOLOGY:

Produced in 1892, Haddon Hall was written after The Yeomen of the Guard (1888), The Gondoliers (1889), and the infamous Carpet Quarrel that divided G&S, but before they reunited—“or more or less, but rather less than more”—for Utopia Limited (1893) and The Grand Duke (1896). Sullivan’s one grand opera, Ivanhoe, had been produced the previous year (1891). Three of the other major “SWOGs” (Sullivans-without-Gilbert) were still in the future: The Beauty Stone (1898), The Rose of Persia (1899), and The Emerald Isle (1901). While some of the individual pieces in Haddon Hall bear a strong resemblance to Sullivan’s parlour songs, overall the music is typical of the later period of Sullivan’s writing, rich in chromaticism and more complex in construction than his works of the late 1870s and early to mid-1880s. Piano accompaniment cannot do this score true justice, as Sullivan was at the height of his powers as an evocative orchestrator and quite a bit of the power and beauty of the score are lost in the translation to piano, especially the storm effects. The recording by Prince Consort, available from The Sir Arthur Sullivan Society, is recommended for the full flavor.

–ASR