BERLIN - The very Italian Lucio Gallo just nailed the Credo, exulting in
the meaningless nothing that follows death, and the very German audience
in the Staatsoper Unter den Linden just sat there, not reacting, not
applauding.  In any properly unruly opera house, there would have been
screaming and hollering, rightly so.  (He got a big applause at the end,
when orderly people express their pleasure in a disciplined way, but it's
just not the same.)

Gallo, whom I heard here last year as a fine Macbeth, has fully come
into his own, and his Iago - vocally and dramatically - is now as good as
you'll get anywhere.  From a purr to a roar, the voice - big, round, aimed
as a laser - pours out of the man, and he commands attention even while
lurking in the background.  He is also believably, complexly evil, not a
caricature.  Gallo has a devilish grace, he sings a graceful devil - and
that's perfect for Iago.

It never fails:  you go to hear one singer and you "discover" another.  I
was at the Staatsoper tonight to hear Christian Franz's Otello, but good as
that was, I came away with the memory of Gallo's Iago.  The important thing
about Franz, one of the handful of new legitimate Wagnerian heldentenors,
is that he is a true tenor - in placement, attack, range, "sound" - and not
a high baritone, as so many alleged tenors are these days.

Impressed by his Tristan, disappointed in his Parsifal, my interest
in his Otello was great because he's been going the opposite route from
just about everybody else:  from Wagner to Verdi.  The result was a good,
decent, occasionally thrilling performance, but not all of one piece:
an "Otello"that would be great for excerpts on a CD.  With occasional
squeezing (that seems unnecessary), Franz hit the high notes, and he
did very well in the quiet passages.

The CD option is also a good idea because Franz, who has no stage presence
to speak of, was really done in by the flim-flam man, director Jurgen
Flimm.  Unclear on the concept in most cases (at least recently), Flimm
dressed the principals in Pinkerton-type naval dress uniform.  With the
uniform's high collar, Franz - who looks like Jackie Mason, about the same
height and build, his head between his shoulders, not above - looked too
funny to be either heroic or tragic.

Emily Magee sang a crisp and clear Desdemona, Kurt Streit - recruited
only this morning from Austria to step into the role - was a fine Cassio.
Daniel Barenboim celebrated his birthday by getting away from Wagner, and
his direction was neither that nor Italian - it was international-neutral,
played in good and poor segments, lacking an over-all sweep without which
you may get something "nice," but it sure ain't "Otello." Not everyone in
the orchestra celebrated the boss' birthday - from the brass came sounds
I'd never expect from the Staatskapelle.

Back to the production:  I have no idea what Flimm was going for.  The
opera opens with a bunch of people on a multilevel building, in sort
of contemporary dress (or the East German equivalent), greeting a white
Otello and his men in those white (US?) Navy uniforms.  After the first
scene, some of the principals get into civvies (some not), including the
now-typical German idea of elegance:  London Fog.  Later, poor Franz is
made to mark up his face with white lipstick, desecrate the Venetian flag
by using it as the hood of the burnoose into which he changes for the final
scene.  Granted that Otello is under pressure, but must he have a crisis of
fashion identity as well?

The designer, George Tsypin, is just as guilty of unclear/no concept as
the hapless Flimm, but at least his stuff is spectacular.  (Hey guys - how
about presenting "Otello" by Shakespeare and Verdi, not by Flimm and Tsypin
and Abbott and Costello?)

Tsypin, I think, follows in the footsteps of the great Svoboda as far
as engineering genius is concerned.  The round building facade used by
the motley crowd to greet Otello, is turned around to form the basis of a
sort of Crystal Palace, with a swimming pool here, acrylic columns there,
disparate, illogical, but spectacular scenery having absolutely nothing to
do with the story.  There is also an endless spiral staircase twisting in
the wind - it is a required climbing exercise for all singers, preferably
when they are in the middle of a difficult aria.  In the final scene,
Otello enters with a torch and sets the entire upstage on fire; nobody in
the well-disciplined audience yelled the word.

Perhaps by now my enthusiasm for Gallo's performance is becoming
understandable.  While everyone was running off in all directions, Gallo
was singing Iago, keeping the faith with what was originally advertised for
the evening.  Thank heaven for such large favors.

Janos Gereben/SF
www.sfcv.org
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