IS ANY OPERA TICKET WORTH $180?
Even at the Met in New York, the answer is not always yes
By PAUL HORSLEY - The Kansas City Star
Date: 04/07/01 22:15
NEW YORK -- A good seat at the Metropolitan Opera can set you back
$180 -- or roughly the cost of a whole season at Kansas City's Lyric
Opera.
Is a Kansas Citian well advised to travel to classical music's capital
city to hear opera? What can be found there that ain't back home,
and how much better is it than anywhere else in the country? Is New
York worth the $200 airfare, the $150-a-night hotel and, of course,
the wild prices of the tickets?
Naturally there are things that the Met, with its $180 million-plus
annual budget, does better than just about anyone. Its pit orchestra,
whipped into fever-pitch virtuosity by the company's cherubic artistic
director, James Levine, is probably second only to that of the Vienna
State Opera (which actually cheats by using the Vienna Philharmonic).
The Met boasts the best soloists: from the hottest young soprano to
the hoariest of grand old baritones, singers from around the globe
fight to stand on this stage. It's the pinnacle of operatic
achievement.
But consider this: The chance of having a good operatic experience
is about the same at the Lyric Opera as at the Met.
There will always be reasons to travel to New York for culture.
But good opera today cuts across regional boundaries and even annual
budget categories. It has to do with the will of smaller companies
to distinguish themselves by trying new things.
A weekend in the Apple
A recent Big Apple weekend began with an all-Metropolitan Saturday
of Prokofiev's "The Gambler" and Verdi's "Nabucco," continued with
the City Opera's "Acis and Galatea" and concluded with Wagner's
enormous "Parsifal" back at the Met, featuring one (sorry, only one)
of the Three Tenors.
None of these performances was exhilarating to the extent that the
ticket prices suggested. But then, this is New York: Everything
seems overpriced for what you get.
"The Gambler," completed in 1917 but just now receiving its Met
premiere, got things off to a dour start. Perhaps it's not surprising
that an opera on Dostoyevsky's dark novel by the same title would
take such a grotesque view of human nature: The tale was based on
the author's own compulsive gambling during the 1860s.
The Met's production tried hard to make a case for this awkward piece.
Especially striking was the set for the final act, built around an
enormous, steeply raked gaming table, complete with bright metallic
columns lit with neon. But despite Temur Chkheidze's hyper-physical
production and George Tsypin's neo-shopping-mall set designs, the
listener was likely to have left feeling empty.
The music is not exactly top-drawer Prokofiev, though Valery Gergiev
-- the Met's principal guest conductor -- makes much of its enormous
palette of jagged post-tonality. Barely in his 20s when he wrote
it, Prokofiev was still learning the theater. There's not a single
character to feel much warmth for in this opera: They are driven by
money-lust.
The singing was not bad. Vladimir Galouzine's Alexei was compelling
for its obsessive qualities, and Olga Guryakova's Polina was finely
sung. In the broadly comic role of the Grammy, Elena Obraztsova had
an awkward break in the middle of her range, but she zeroed in on
the character's down-to-earth gravity.
Satire this potent is fine for literature, but opera cries out for
love, for song. Time will tell whether "The Gambler" gains a spot
in the permanent repertoire. If nothing else, this impressive
production will have furthered the work's position as yet another
problem child of modernist opera.
Subtle, it's not
Verdi's rough-hewn early operas are not exactly famous for their
subtlety, and the Met's much-touted "Nabucco" will not be remembered
for it either. It favors the shrill and the loud. Leading the
onslaught was soprano Maria Gugleghina as Abigaille, whose imperious
portrayal of a scorned woman was marred by a shriek of a voice that
was ungainly at the top and raspy at the bottom.
As Nabucco (Nebuchadnezar), baritone Juan Pons inserted a sort of
imposing dignity that reminded us of the origins of this tale in
sacred texts. If his voice has taken on a coarse character in recent
years -- he seems to labor to get a tone out -- his characterization
was the most compelling of all.
Bass Samuel Ramey was the biggest star, and he got the loudest ovation
at the end. His foghorn of a voice has taken on an enormous vibrato,
though, a sort of rhythmic oscillation that can drill its way right
into your skull.
The other "star" of this production was the choir of some 80 (!) men
and women: the captive Hebrews. Their contribution was so oversung
that passers-by on Broadway could have heard the shriller moments.
Granted, the celebrated "Va, pensiero" chorus was effective, in an
in-your-face sort of way: The fashionably dressed singers languished
on the giant stack of stone-blocks as if for an elaborate Calvin
Klein commercial. Only their lips moved.
Stasis was the production's primary problem. Early Verdi, with its
formulaic tunes and oompah rhythms, cries out for visual interest to
keep the eyes occupied while the ear is not. John Napier's stage
design was ingenious, if a bit cheesy-looking: a giant carousel
featured a pile of barren rocks on one side, and the scary temple of
Baal on the other. We fidgeted while waiting for the thing to rotate,
at a glacial pace, in total silence.
Elijah Moshinsky's direction was of the stand-and-sing variety for
which the Met has traditionally been so severely criticized. James
Levine conducted impressively, and the orchestra played the repetitive
score with patience.
A splash of cold water
An ideal panacea from the Met's shrill biblical tale was the City
Opera's production of "Acis and Galatea," a surprising delight to
the eye and the ear. It is one of Handel's best works, blending his
operatic aplomb, wry good humor and deft capacity for choral writing.
It held up well to the inventive view of director Mark Lamos and
set designer Paul Steinberg. The stage was a mirthful mountain of
iridescent, day-glo blues and greens, tinsel-covered shrubs and an
enormous reclining Cupid. Dressed in 1930s beachwear, the excellent
chorus of 16 sang some of Handel's most joyous music ("Oh the pleasures
of the plain") with youthful vibrancy. After the choral onslaught
of "The Gambler," it was nice to hear a choir sing pianissimo.
Soprano Christine Brandes was a vocally resplendent and visually
appealing Galatea, and bass-baritone Dean Elzinga was comically
effective as the "giant," Polyphemus. Acis, however -- tenor William
Burden -- had clearly been selected on the basis of his looks. He
posed well, looking suitably hunky in his chinos and sandals and
Lands' End sweaters. And his looks gave credibility to the ironically
homoerotic elements of the production, such as the scene where Damon
and several gay sailors try to seduce Acis.
But he strains in the upper register: He sounds like a baritone.
Vocally he couldn't hold a candle to Chad Shelton, the tenor who sang
the lead in Kansas City's "Rake." The whole show invited comparison
to the "Rake," in fact, and I can honestly say that the local production
had the edge over this much-admired New York "Acis."
You won't see it here
Certain operas, largely because of cost, will remain the territory
of major companies. One is Wagner's "Parsifal," the five-hour Everest
of musical theater. It's not just an opera, it's a high Mass, and
if you don't believe it just observe its devotees. At the Met on
Monday, fervent fans shushed every single cough and sigh.
Director Otto Schenk's and set designer Guenther Schneider-Siemssen's
production, introduced at the Met in 1991, is a drab "traditional"
look at this tale of the knights of the Holy Grail. It looks a little
like Middle Earth: Scene 1 is in a dim forest filled with fake-looking
trees; the second scene uses the same trees as columns for the knights'
grand hall -- which explains why they looked so fake before. Act II
features a Dracula-movie castle and muted pastels for the Flower
Maidens. Only in Act III do we get some light on the matter, in a
spring glade subtly lit with ever-brightening haze.
The 60-year-old Placido Domingo was of course the big news of this
show, having turned his bright tenor into something dark and interesting
for Wagnerian roles. His Parsifal goes against verisimilitude:
Instead of a blond 18-year-old virgin, he pretty much plays himself.
His natural baritone quality was well-used here, though when he went
high he sounded like Placido singing Verdi.
John Tomlinson's Gurnemanz was powerfully acted but disappointingly
sung, with a fierce wobble that undermined much of the shimmering
musical substance. None of the other leads distinguished themselves
vocally.
The standout was Violeta Urmana, who actually sang the part of Kundry,
a role that is often blurted and shrieked. She made us feel she was
a real woman, which underscored Wagner's perverse misogyny. (Kundry's
the seductress bent on ruining all these "pure" men.)
A "Parsifal" worth the trip? Almost. Somehow, in the end, something
was missing. Levine's conducting of the fabulous score was less
soulful than I expected. More to the point, Schenk's stodgy view
reveals little about the meaning of "Parsifal" for our time. Played
straight, as a cockeyed view of Wagnerian Christianity, all of its
vaguely anti-Semitic, anti-woman elements come rushing out.
We've learned much about the use of visuals and symbolism in
underscoring the meaning of theater in the last 100 years. You would
have thought the Met, at least, would make use of these lessons --
especially at these prices.
Scott Morrison,
Prairie Village, KS
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