The Flourishing Arts with Les Arts Florissants in "Les Arts Florissants"

Les Arts Florissants performed Charpentier's Les Arts Florissants at Caramoor Friday evening. Photo: Gabe Palacio
KATONAH, N.Y. -- William Christie, who turned 81 last December, founded Les Arts Florissants in 1979 in France, where he had relocated due to his opposition to the Vietnam War. The preeminent French early music ensemble took its name from a short chamber opera, composed by Marc-Antoine Charpentier in 1685 for Marie de Lorraine, Duchesse de Guise, and likely performed at her residence in Paris. Long after recording the piece in 1982, the group has returned to its namesake work as part of the ongoing celebrations for Christie's 80th birthday. Christie himself is leading a North American tour with the organization, pairing Les Arts Florissants with the same composer's La Descente d’Orphée aux Enfers, which came to Caramoor Friday evening. Although the ongoing wildfire smoke influx threatened to scuttle the performance in that venue's outdoor Venetian Theater, by that afternoon the winds had shifted and the air was relatively cool and clear.

The story of Les Arts Florissants is allegorical. Music, Poetry, Painting, and Architecture greet warriors returning from conflict, hoping that the arts may hold greater sway over Louis XIV, now that war is at an end. War and Discord enter, leading the Chorus of the Furies in frightful displays until Peace appears, dispersing the forces of chaos. The ultimate meaning of the work, and how it may have been referencing the political situation in France in 1685, remains obscure, but its message remains ever timely. The coincidence of this performance, although likely planned long ago, with the renewed hostilities by the United States against Iran underscored Charpentier's message: the arts flourish only when war is kept at bay.

For this tour, Christie assembled a cast drawn from the flower of Le Jardin des Voix, the French Baroque training program for young singers he established in 2002. French soprano Camille Chopin presided as La Musique, with a limpid top range and impeccable phrasing, matched by American soprano Sarah Fleiss's spirited La Poésie. Tenor Bastien Rimondi and Canadian-American contralto Sydney Frodsham made a more comical pair as La Peinture and L'Architecture, respectively, but with musical delicacy. Bass-baritone Olivier Bergeron gave an over-the-top rendition of La Discorde, echoed by the ensemble as shrieking Furies, with plenty of nasal cackling to make the point. Cast and audience alike sank into serene contemplation when Croatian soprano Josipa Balić appeared as La Paix, bringing an end to discord: even a moth, seemingly charmed, alit on the end of her finger at one point.

A quartet of dancers graced the production with their movements, joined in some dances by the vocal cast, and in the final unaccompanied choral section, they sang along with their singer counterparts. The choreography by Martin Chaix was more Mark Morris than Baroque France in style, but the dancers' movements matched the elegant music with visual shapes in ways that diverted the eyes. The costumes, as such, were formalwear and simple gowns in soft pastel colors, again giving the impression of a scene that was more of our age than the past. (Two F-holes on the back of La Musique's white jacket were a nice touch.) The sense of benevolence created by the performance hung in the air, echoing the poignant lines of the final strophe: "Ô paix si longtemps désirée, / Que tes fruits à goûter sont doux, / Tu ramènes les temps de Saturne et de Rhée, / Demeure toujours avec nous." If only peace could bring back the Golden Age and dwell with us forever.

Christie presided in a self-effacing way, adding continuo touches on both harpsichord and chamber organ. Two Baroque violins took the twin parts for treble viols, part of the specific musical establishment kept by the Duchesse de Guise. (Christie recorded the work with treble viols, but they were not missed here.) Two flutists also doubled on flageolets to add a folksy character to some of the dances. Christie's delicate approach and the beautiful French declamation of the singers are what was missing from the ensemble's most recent visit to the Library of Congress in November.

Charpentier's La Descente d’Orphée aux Enfers is a showcase for the high tenor who sings Orpheus. American tenor Richard Pittsinger distinguished himself with a shining high range, capable of extraordinary softness, and refined phrasing. In Act II, he gave a different vocal sheen to each of the three pleas Orpheus made to the powers of the Underworld, concluding almost in a whisper. While the opening wedding scene of Act I featured spirited singing and dancing (including the affecting return of Camille Chopin as Euridice), the piece became exquisite with the entrance into Hell in Act II. Two bass viols, played by Myriam Rignol and Mathilde Vialle, set the somber tone of the infernal scene, bathed in red light. The striking trio sung by Ixion, Tantalus, and Tityus (all infamous denizens of the Underworld) featured the perfectly matched voices of tenors Bastien Rimondi and Attila Varga-Tóth with baritone Olivier Bergeron. Their complex, interwoven lines meshed beautifully with the bass viols and other low instruments. The dark episode continued with bass Kevin Arboleda-Oquendo's sunglasses-sporting Pluton and Sarah Fleiss's alluring Proserpine.

The return of the two flutes and higher registers sounded like a ray of light as Orpheus led Euridice out of Hell. Charpentier's opera ends with that moment, probably because a third act has been lost. The choice to end the performance there added to the sense of hope. Beauty can return to the world, and it does all the time, as long as peace prevails.

The Philharmonia Baroque Orchestra performs Handel's Tolomeo, starring Aryeh Nussbaum Cohen, Lauren Snouffer, and Nicole Heaston 4 p.m. July 26 at Caramoor. caramoor.org

Teatro Nuovo marks bicentenary of Italian opera in America

Sedona Libero (Donna Elvira), Kevin Spooner (Leporello, right), and Ricardo José Rivera (Don Giovanni), Teatro Nuovo. Photo: Steven Pisano
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Will Crutchfield, a leading American specialist in bel canto opera, has led the summer festival Teatro Nuovo since 2018, at various venues around New York. This year's programming, more than worth a trip to Manhattan this week, went back to the start of bel canto history, with the 1826 version of Mozart's Don Giovanni, heard Wednesday evening at the Rose Theater on Columbus Circle, home of Jazz at Lincoln Center.

A bit of history is required for that last sentence to make sense. Our country’s first operatic performances go back to the 18th century, with ballad operas in New York and French operas in New Orleans, even before the latter city technically became American. Crutchfield instead is celebrating the 200th anniversary of Italian opera in America, when Lorenzo da Ponte organized a string of performances in New York in 1826. Mozart's one-time librettist had settled in the U.S. in 1805, driven here by his scandals and bankruptcy in Europe. The troupe that presented the first Don Giovanni in America, among other works, was led by Manuel García and featured the Spanish baritone's wife, his son, and his daughter -- she who would become known as the celebrated soprano Maria Malibran. (García's other daughter, later known as Pauline Viardot, was still a child.) Crutchfield has consulted the 1826 version of the libretto, created by da Ponte, and many other sources to reconstruct the opera. His singers studied 19th-century sources to understand how the Italian singers may have added ornamentation and cadenzas to Mozart's score.

The edition is a mixture of the original Prague version with Mozart's Vienna revision, as are most modern performances. Tenor Martin Luther Clark's Ottavio sang "Il mio tesoro" and not "Dalla sua pace," and Sedona Libero's Elvira sang "Mi tradi," but not in the expected place. Noah B. Rogers, who made a pleasingly assertive Masetto, did not get to sing his aria, which was a shame, but keeping the run time just under three hours seemed worth the trade-offs. The most striking change was the shortened Act II Finale, ending almost immediately after Don Giovanni was taken off to hell. The production cut the entire concluding ensemble, as apparently most productions of the opera did until the 20th century. More significant was the adaptation of the recitatives. Conductor Geoffrey Loff led them from what looked like a clavichord, which produced a very faint, tinkling sound. Double-bassist Dane Roberts provided the foundational bass line, while cellist Hilary Metzger created an intriguing harmonic fabric of viol-like double-stop chords and melodic ideas. Along with the rhythmic freedom taken by the singers, it made the recitatives utterly different and of much greater musical interest.

Baritone Ricardo José Rivera, who is familiar to Washington audiences from his turns with Washington Concert Opera in recent years, made a caustic and insistent Don Giovanni. His scornful anger and his tender love-making, the latter heard most effectively in "Deh! viene a la finestra" (senza mandolino but with a velvety violin solo from concertmaster Laura Lutzke, accompanied by pizzicato strings), were both credible. Both leading women suited their roles admirably, with mezzo-soprano Sedona Libero's Donna Elvira erupting in spitfire ornamentation and cadenzas, and soprano Elizabeth Novella reaching an intensity of Donna Anna's grief and anger with interesting rubato choices in her big scenes. As Leporello, Kevin Spooner displayed nimble comic timing, especially in the Catalog Aria, and sure-footed rhythmic skills.

The voice shifting choices also included casting the potent mezzo-soprano of Simona Genga as Zerlina, for sheer volume the most present singer on the stage. The vocal weight affected her characterization as well, giving her a more aggressive touch in the duets with both Don Giovanni and Masetto. The Commendatore of bass-baritone Daniel Mobbs, a veteran singer, impressed more with elegance of tone than raw power. Tenor Martin Luther Clark used the pointed edge of his sound to give Don Ottavio a dignified presence, occasioning none of the usual audience laughs at the character ending up in the friend zone.

Teatro Nuovo is essentially presenting concert opera, with formal wear for costumes and a set consisting of a large projection-bearing screen (images designed by Adam J. Thompson). The orchestra of gut strings and early instruments made mostly pleasing sounds (with the natural horns and trumpets sounding most rustic), although just because the instruments are less powerful than their modern counterparts does not mean they cannot overpower singers, which Loff should have taken greater care to avoid. A skilled ensemble of ten extra musicians provided the on-stage musical performances during the Act I finale, to appropriately confusing effect.

* * *
Crutchfield paired the Mozart with Rossini's Il Turco in Italia, premiered in Milan in 1814 before the Garcías brought it to New York, also in 1826. Singer illness gutted that first American production. Happily no such issues plagued Teatro Nuovo's performance, heard at the Rose Theater on Thursday night, even with the unbreathable air in New York City this week, caused by smoke blowing in from the devastating Canadian wildfires. This is not one of Rossini's most sparkling achievements, and at well over three hours, it could have used serious truncation along the lines of what Crutchfield did with Don Giovanni. One could certainly start by excising the superfluous aria given to Albazar toward the end, as well as one or maybe both of Don Narciso's arias.

Felice Romani's libretto is predictably absurd. Selim, a Turkish prince, visits Naples and falls in love with Donna Fiorilla, who is already managing her intimacies with a husband, the aged Don Geronio, and a lover, the vain and ridiculous Don Narciso. In Naples, somewhat miraculously, is Selim's former slave and lover, Zaida, now disguised as a Roma fortune-teller. (The use of the word gipsy and some Muslim stereotypes might also make the libretto unpalatable to modern listeners.) The most ingenious part of the story is the character of Prosdocimo, a poet who, in a metafictional twist, is creating the entire story as the basis of his latest opera libretto. Many funny jokes at the art form's expense happen along the way. (Crutchfield's program note pointed to a performance of Mozart's Così fan tutte in Milan just before Romani wrote this libretto, which may have influenced the Donna Fiorilla's polyamorous excesses.)

Kresley Figueroa, familiar from her recent and excellent work with Washington National Opera's Cafritz Young Artists program, showed exceptional technique as Donna Fiorilla, lighting up her many arias and ensembles with firecracker virtuosity. While her intonation strayed at times toward the top, Figueroa's physical presence made the character's outrageous vanity and ability to manipulate men more than credible. Of her three love interests, Mattia Venni's Don Geronio, the long-suffering husband, made the best impression, with impeccable comic timing and buffo antics. As the eponymous Turk, Vincent Graña displayed the most potent instrument, easily filling the room with sound, although in terms of comfort on the stage he seemed reserved. Tenor Max Alexander Cook struggled at times in the top range, but he sang the role of Don Narciso with technical ease in melismatic passages. Soprano Sabatina Mauro, as Zaida, and David Freides, as Albazar, both made worthy appearances from the ranks of this year's Resident Artists. Hans Tashjian brought more stage antics than vocal refinement to the poet Prosdocimo, with some charming breaking of the theatrical fourth wall.

Violinist Elisa Citterio, who stood facing the orchestra, led the performance while partially playing as well, with Derrick Goff seated at the clavichord next to her. The results were not as clean in terms of ensemble cohesion, as the establishment of fast tempos did not always happen with clarity. The same division of labor occurred for the recitatives, far fewer in number, as heard in Don Giovanni. The instrumental playing, here and in Don Giovanni, was generally impeccable. The extended horn solo from Nathaniel Udell proved a highlight of the Rossini overture, with the charming alternation of stopped and open notes necessary because of the natural horn's lack of valves.

Second image credit: Mattia Venni (Don Geronio) and Kresley Figueroa (Donna Fiorilla) in Teatro Nuovo's Il Turco in Italia. Photo: Steven Pisano

Critic’s Notebook: New Production of the Rosenkavalier in Graz

Also reviewed for Die Presse: „Rosenkavalier“ in Graz: Wo die Frauen hauen und stechen

Richard Strauss Der Rosenkavalier C.Kleiber, Bavarian State Opera Watson, Fassbaender Popp, Ridderbusch (Orfeo, 2008) US | UK | DE

Richard Strauss Der Rosenkavalier C.Thielemann, Munich Phil Fleming, Koch, Damrau, Hawlata (DVD, Decca, 2011) US | UK | DE

Marschallin across Generations: New Rosenkavalier in Graz

Philipp M. Krenn’s new Rosenkavalier in Graz is a production brimming with ideas, gently nudged toward the present. In the way it succeeds at explaining itself, it comes startlingly close to a directorial ideal.

Strauss and Hofmannsthal are always about human relationships. In the new Graz Rosenkavalier that’s literally true, so liberally do director Philipp M. Krenn and set designer Momme Hinrichs deploy the revolving stage. We move seamlessly from foyer to antechamber, to servants’ quarters, to billiard room, bedroom, and kitchen. This way, Krenn manages to stage the Marschallin and Octavian’s early-morning dalliance during the overture already, while revealing – in an Upstairs/Downstairs type scenario – how the staff sorts laundry, stocks shelves, listens at doors, whispers and gossips. There are fewer secrets in this household than you’d think. Small wonder that the Marschallin (Polina Pastirchak) and Octavian (Anna Brull) are so surprisingly indiscreet.

Hinrichs’ sets and Eva Maria Dessecker’s costumes span a parallel palette from early 20th century (the aristocratic society, dueling type student fraternities) through the 1970s (replete with Bubble Chair and large-floral wallpaper) to a subtle present-day — expressed, among other things, in the kitchen where the Marschallin makes her morning coffee and where Ochs and the ever-present Leopold (Arthur Haas) brazenly help themselves to anything in sight. Whether the “carnal offspring”, as Leopold is referred to in the libretto, is Ochs’ illegitimate son or on-and-off lover... with this sexually insatiable opportunist Ochs, anything is possible.

Apropos. Wilfried Zelinka’s Ochs was magnificent: He nails the greasy vulgarian who thinks far too highly – and all the more imperturbably – of himself with fearsome ease. Someone for whom women are mainly status symbol; sunglasses casually cocked in his hair that’s a good deal longer than advisable and thinner than desired, dress shirt stretched across the paunch, lordly manner, and shoes without socks. Whether petty nobility or Mittelstand nouveau-riche – if you’ve been to Austria long enough, you know the type. That his lowest notes weren’t quite there was irrelevant amid such a vivid display of character.

In Act II Zelinka also becomes a hybrid of Ochs and the Feldmarschall, who still rightly rankles the sensitives of Sophie, even as he’s a bit more dashing, kept keep in check by his manners where his morals wouldn’t, and displaying the debonair cool of a man not used to being flustered. This whole act is the coup de théâtre Krenn has been preparing since Act I, when a Super-8-movie flashback takes us to the Marschallin’s own wedding. At the very end of the act, she finds herself face to face with her younger self in the bridal gown: This is simultaneously the young Maria Theres’ and Sophie (Tetiana Miyus). It’s a passing-of-the-torch moment. And this is also how the second act, throughout which the Marschallin is silently present – begins. She is there to support Sophie and, by extension, herself – in her struggle for marital self-determination. Sophie’s marriage is actually the memory of her own. The Marschallin’s fate (none-too-bad, if sprinkled with regrets) was not hers to decide; Sophie’s, at least, should be. It is Sophie, too, who settles the matter of the Ochs-Octavian duel when she takes a carving knife to Ochs’ calf, to make sure worse does not befall young, out-fenced Octavian.

You can like this sort of thing or not (at the premiere it was unabated applause for the directorial team), but for Krenn to pull off this act of doubling – past and present; amending the past to cure the future – in a way that explains itself with such self-evidence, brings the production startlingly close to a directorial ideal.

The orchestra under Vassilis Christopoulos supported the proceedings well, often superb; the winds especially; the violins at times rather less so. It certainly wouldn’t have hurt throughout most of the performance, if the orchestra could have played a touch more quietly throughout. The acting meanwhile was superb: the deeply moving, full-voiced Marschallin, the nuanced Ochs, the adorable, feisty Sophie. Even the torn-and-striving Octavian hardly lagged behind, and the cast as a whole delivered very decent (and better) vocal performances without, admittedly, threatening to redefine the standards for excellence. Noteworthy, however, among smaller roles were Leitmetzerin Corina Koller and Neira Muhič’s Annina. The social-media-addicted Italian singer (Iurie Ciobanu), meanwhile, had a small message for young Mr. Chalamet ready: He took selfies with a “#WECARE, Timothée” sign.

At the close, the Feldmarschall wanders past Sophie and Octavian’s embrace and finds Faninal’s “Sind halt aso, die jungen Leut’!” put in his mouth. When he watches with rather too much interest, his wife gives him a tender-but-firm tap – “Come along now, darling” – and leads him away, back to their reality.

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Critic’s Notebook: Evgeny Titov’s New Wozzeck in Graz

A. Berg, Wozzeck, Dohnanyi, WPh Silja, Waechter et al. (Decca, 1981) US | UK | DE

H. Berlioz, Les Troyens, Böhm, Deutsche Oper Berlin Lear, Fischer-Dieskau et al. (DG, 1965) US | UK | DE

The Naked Truth About Graz’s Wozzeck

Every aspect of the new Wozzeck in Graz is better than average. Even if (with one exception) nothing is quite superlative, the result is an enormously successful evening.

Is it actually possible to ruin Alban Berg’s Wozzeck? Musically, it may be “difficult” fare for the more occasional opera-goer, but the drama is so goshdarn concentrated and Berg’s setting so atmospheric that one often feels closer to witnessing spoken theater with music than an opera proper. That was certainly the case in Graz, where Evgeny Titov’s new production – the same director responsible for the dark-romantic Vienna Iolanta – opened to deserved applause on Friday evening.

Anyone who saw said Iolanta, with its sugar-coated mountain of flowers, can imagine Titov’s Wozzeck as its inversion. The “Upside Down” (cf. Stranger Things), so to speak. Low dunes of sand where yonder a green knoll rises high. Arid, wispy brown brambles instead of flowers blooming in technicolor, gloom instead of brightness. This natural landscape rotates – sometimes faster, sometimes slower – on the revolving stage. Behind it, occasionally kitschy, occasionally strikingly effective, projections: a blood moon, a forest (turning in perspective with the stage), ominous clouds. Titov plays – consciously or not – with dark kitsch and realism, kept in productive tension.

The costumes (Sebastian Alphons) move in a similar direction. The protagonist, thrown butt naked into the first act (dramaturgically unnecessary, though undeniably efficient in underscoring Wozzeck’s humiliation at the hands of his superiors), wanders about in a shabby blazer and socks, while the figures around him appear in black latex costumes, grotesque and abstract, ghoulishly made up so that they faintly resemble figures from a George Grosz drawing. The latter appears to be a popular device for visualizing Büchner; the wildly outstanding productions by Kriegenburg (Munich) and Andreas Homoki (Zurich) went in a roughly similar direction. Does one need a mute black angel silently overseeing the action? Probably not. It’s directorial bric-a-brac – tasteful enough, and not much of a distraction –but bric-a-brac nonetheless.

For all its dramatic and visual appeal, a Wozzeck still wants be sung and played – and here, too, Graz delivered handsomely. First and foremost, with the Wozzeck himself. Unexpectedly, perhaps: Daniel Schmutzhard. A perennial Papageno elsewhere, here unmistakably tragic on a smaller, more human scale – and all the more touching for it. That he does not possess the most powerful voice proves dramaturgically apt; one might even bemoan the fact (not seriously, though) that his voice proved almost too beautiful! Annette Dasch, by contrast, could not be accused of too much beauty at this stage in her career: her Marie occasionally sounded strained, slightly worn – but again entirely in keeping with the character (a spent, run-down prostitute), and dramatically persuasive throughout.

The vocal high point (in more ways than one), and perhaps the evening’s most gratifying surprise, was Thomas Ebenstein’s Captain: penetrating, incisive, clear, and more secure in the upper register than is often the case in this role. A pleasure to hear… if only he weren’t such a scoundrel. (The Captain, not Ebenstein.)

The orchestra did itself proud, too. Properly brutal when needed, and mostly precise; a few off-moments in the interludes were the exception rather than the rule. This came as little surprise, given how impressively Les Troyens had fared in Graz under Vassilis Christopoulos. Could it have sounded even rounder from the pit? More lush? Sure thing. But Wozzeck does not necessarily benefit from polish for polish’s sake. An impressive overall package then, this Graz Wozzeck.

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Dip Your Ears: No. 285 (A World Premiere Recording of Nadia Boulanger’ Opera)

Nadia Boulanger La ville morte Neal Goren, Talea Ensemble Melissa Harvey, Laurie Rubin, Joshua Dennis, Jorell Williams (Pentatone 5187792, 2 CDs) US | UK | DE

Nadia Boulanger as a Composer

A delightful surprise for lovers of French Impressionism

There is an endless amount of unfamiliar repertoire to be discovered in classical music. Much of it forgettable, but some of it worth perking up for. This is very much a case of the latter. La ville morte is a four-act opera to a libretto by the would-be dictator and man of letters Gabriele D’Annunzio, with music by Raoul Pugno and Nadia Boulanger. Nadia, mind you. Born in 1887, later to enter music history as the most influential composition teacher of the twentieth century — and elder sister of the composer Lili Boulanger (1893–1918) who died at a tragically young age when Nadia was 31.

The Boulanger sisters’ story, told in shorthand, usually goes thus: Lili was so prodigiously gifted that Nadia, faced with this overwhelming talent, put her own compositional ambitions aside and devoted herself to teaching. And if there were still any questions early on, the younger sister’s premature death surely did the rest. No doubt family pressure also played a role — the father, just like Nadia, had won the prestigious Prix de Rome. But the decisive blow to the composing career may well have been the death of her teacher, mentor, musical collaborator, and lover, the (very much married) Raoul Pugno, who died in January of 1914 while the two were on concert tour together. Even then, things might still have turned out differently, had the outbreak of the First World War not forced the cancellation of the premiere of La ville morte. That finally took place only in 2005, in Siena.

Performances then (as now) were further complicated by the fact that the score itself was lost during the war. For the newly released world-premiere recording on Pentatone — produced in conjunction with a new staging at the Greek National Opera — conductor Nel Goren had to take matters into his own hands. He opted for a chamber-scale orchestration. He also cut a wordless chorus and a peripheral role to make future performances more feasible — in plain terms, cheaper. That decision is possibly lamentable (but if he had not told us, we would even know what we are missing) but in any case entirely defensible, and the result speaks for itself. The music, superbly played by the Talea Ensemble, can at times sound uncannily like Michael Nyman, or like Mahler seen through the prism of chamber music - a result of the minimal orchestration. It remains thoroughly compelling, though — with especially striking affinities to Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande. The singers, led by Melissa Harvey, add their share to the pleasure of this pleasing rediscovery.

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This review had been previously published on Classics Today.

Critic’s Notebook: Eötvös meets Krasznahorkai — Valuska at the Budapest Opera

Also reviewed for Die Presse: Oper „Valuska“ in Budapest: Lautmalerei der leisen Töne

P. Eötvös Three Sisters Nagano, O.d.Lyon (DG, 1999) US | UK | DE

P. Eötvös Love and Other Demons V.Jurowski, LPO (Glyndeborne, 2013) US | UK | DE

P. Eötvös Atlantis Eötvös, WDRSO (BMC, 2018) US | UK | DE

A Nobel Effort from Budapest

The revival of the Eötvös-Krasznahorkai opera Valuska got a deserving boost.

When the Hungarian State Opera decided to revive Peter Eötvös's final opera, Valuska, this season, following its December 2023 premiere, no one could have known that László Krasznahorkai, on whose novel Melancholy of Resistance the libretto is based, would win the Nobel Prize. Ticket sales for the small alternative venue — the Eiffel Art Studios — moved sluggishly at first. But what a difference a Nobel Prize makes! After the Swedish Academy's announcement earlier this month, all three performances sold out in no time.

It was worth attending, too — provided you can accommodate yourself with Eötvös's brand of music theater. He's written 14 operas in total, which makes him arguably Hungary's foremost opera composer (although I reckon most listeners would trade it just for Bartók's Bluebeard in a heartbeat); and ever since his fourth, Tri sestri, he is one of the most frequently performed opera composers of the last few decades. One thing his works have going for them, although they're never easy listening, is that they're usually compelling drama.

Valuska, named after the novel's (anti-)hero, is his first setting of a Hungarian text (precisely to avoid comparison with Bartók). And what an instinct Eötvös showed in choosing it. Not that Krasznahorkai's novel is an obvious choice to adapt for the stage: without paragraph — let alone chapter — breaks, Krasznahorkai unfolds his story slowly, relentlessly, with immense, whimsical detail, yet remains compelling to the willing reader, manages even to be humorous at times, in the portrayal of his all-too-human protagonists. Only gradually does one realise what is happening in the anonymous little town the book's characters inhabit: the slow undermining of society by the twin forces of anarchy and oppression.

But the selection of text by Kinga Keszthelyi and Mari Mezei (Eötvös's wife), the choices made by Bence Varga's direction, Botond Devich's creative set, Kató Huszár's bold costumes, and Sándor Baumgartner's dramatic lighting, together with Eötvös's atmospheric score, combine to create a theatrical experience that does not reproduce the novel but conveys its sense of pity, melancholy, desolation, and quiet dread. One senses a (presumably unintentional) spiritual kinship with John Kennedy Toole's A Confederacy of Dunces.

To call it a "theatrical" rather than an "operatic" experience is to make a point, because Eötvös's music — for all its proven quality over the years — is not so much the reason why anyone would enjoy the work. Rather, it is a layer of supporting sound, suggesting moods, or making scenes aurally explicit. Valuska thus becomes "music theatre" in the most literal sense, with the emphasis on theatre. No one will be humming arias on their way home from the out-of-the-way multi-purpose theatre — a converted railway depot that doubles as the opera's costume- and prop-depot, and rehearsal facility.

But everyone will have understood the hissing, puffing, and pounding, the chattering and rattling of the train in the first of the twelve tableaux. Likewise, the refuge that Bach's music represents — played by the reclusive Professor (András Hábetler, a retired music-school director in the novel) on the record player for himself and his friend Valuska (Zsolt Haja), who is the innocently-naïve village-idiot with strong overtones of the "holy fool" archetype. Similarly literal is the chirping of the "Prince," who is – unseen, unfathomable, never directly heard – a constant, menacing presence in the travelling circus. Eötvös pulls all manner of onomatopoeia like stops on an organ: The squeaking toilet door in the train is vocalized by the ensemble. If that was one of Eötvös' ways of giving a nod to the humor in the original, it's darn effective.

With few but telling means, the production sketches the drab, disorderly world of a neglected provincial town on the small black stage. The whale — "the largest stuffed of its kind", the circuses' great draw, and catalyst of the action — is only seen after the mob has struck. Mayor Tünde (sung, aptly enough, by Tünde Szabóki) provides a garish pink splash of color amid the greyness. With her little dog-in-handbag (the costume department combined the two hilariously) she is clip-clopping toward totalitarianism. Since the music is not very conventional, conventional means to judge the singers hardly apply; only Haja's Valuska gets aria-like, dissonant-sweet moments in which he sounds bright and lovely — a plausible holy fool, indeed. The rest act, often delightfully quirky, supporting the drama with their vocal resources and acting as effectively as the small but alert State Opera Orchestra under Kálmán Szennai's direction.

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#ClassicalDiscoveries: The Podcast. Episode 019 - Alexander Zemlinsky, the Opera Composer

Welcome to #ClassicalDiscoveries. Here is a little introduction to who we are and what we would like to achive at the first (or, in a nod to Bruckner, "double-zeroëth" episode). Your comments, criticism, and suggestions remain most welcome, of whatever nature they may be. Comments on YouTube directly are even more appreciated, as they will help the visibility and reach of the podcast - and because they make us feel like what we are doing is not completely in vain.

Now here’s Episode 019, which tackles the operatic side of Alexander Zemlinsky and his development throughout. Or as the blurb states: "Once upon a time, there was a tiny little man in Vienna, who composed the grandest operas..." Chronologically correct, we start with the alluded-to Once upon a Time, and work our way to the Ouverture to a Grand Opera.

A little note on the discography of the Florentine Tragedy, Zemlinsky's one-act opera that's the only one that has had a lot of love lavished upon it, by the record industry: Beyond the two accounts below, you can also choose from: Gerd Albrecht/RSO Berlin/1983/Schwann, James Conlon/Gürzenich/1997/EMI, Vladimir Jurowski/LPO/2012/LPO Live, Armin Jordan/ORTF/2003/Naïve, Marc Albrecht*/Nethelands PO/2021/Pentatone, and Patrick Hahn/Munich RSO/2024/BR Klassik (w/Christopher Maltman!)

Once upon a time, there was a tiny little man in Vienna, who composed the grandest operas. What started out with fairy-tale works of musical theater did, alas, take a tragic end for Alexander Zemlinsky in the New World. In their latest podcast, Joe and Jens track this wildly underrated composer’s operatic career from Vienna via Prague and Berlin to a premature death in New York.

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Notes from the 2025 Bayreuth Festival: A New Meistersinger Production for Bayreuth

Also published in Die Presse: Bayreuth: Als hätte Monty Python bei den „Meistersingern“ Pate gestanden

A Laughing Matter: Matthias Davids and the Natural Humor in Richard Wagner

Bayreuth's new production of Die Meistersinger trusts the libretto and the music, to stage the work as the 'simple' comedy it is. That works, more or less.

Straight into the chatter and hum – as a good third of the audience was still trying to locate their seats in the Festspielhaus – the Meistersinger Prelude growled up from the pit. Accordingly, those already seated busied themselves with hissing “Silentium!”, which, of course, only made the racket worse. But that was somehow befitting this opera, in which art and populace mingle so merrily. Eventually, Daniele Gatti and the Bayreuth Festival Orchestra prevailed, and the overture flowed, very horizontally, as if without bar lines, almost “La Mer”-like. Thus the 149th Bayreuth Festival – following its open-air concert and the children’s Tannhäuser – was officially underway.

A steep stairway rising into the stage-heavens, crowned by the Katharinenkirche, greeted the attendees of Matthias Davids’ new staging. Love letters are delivered via airmail: Walther von Stolzing (Michael Spyres) stands amid a gaggle of paper airplanes, arranged to form a heart, and catching the latest missive from Eva (Christina Nilsson). Alas, the staircase is not conducive to the coordination of their reputedly aborted exchanges, as Magdalene (Christa Mayer) is sent to fetch the accidentally-forgotten kerchief, clasp, and prayer-book, because she could never get back and forth in time. The visual gag of lowering her book in a basket on a string doesn’t quite replace the comedic back-and-forth in that tryst that never quite gets off the ground because Walther simply won’t get to the point. A minor point, granted, but to some degree indicative of the production, which sometimes misses out on the natural humor in the libretto by replacing it with jokes, slightly more heavy-handed, of its own.

Prügelszene, Act II

The revolving stage turns to reveal the Meistersingers’ rehearsal room. Andrew Edwards’ set and Susanne Hubrich’s costumes could be 1800 or 1980 – timeless, pragmatic, supplying atmosphere as needed, and ranging from postcard medievalism to a relatable here-and-now of emotions. Eva wears her festival-dirndl as naturally as she does jeans and a summer blazer. The Mastersingers, meanwhile, sport droll – almost silly – hats straight out of a Mainz carnival club. It’s not the evening’s only tightrope walk between wit and slapstick, and depending on one’s sense of humor, it is where any given viewer places that line that will decide whether the night was great or merely solid.

The production – and especially the first act – brims with small gestures: buffet humor, smoking-in-the-toilet humor, seating humor: the flip-up-seats in the rehearsal room are the same as in the Festspielhaus, and they pinch one of the Guild’s members’ back, even with cushions. At times it feels like Monty Python had a hand in the staging. But of course, they are up to distracting shenanigans and side-activities, because the Meistersinger-lot is bored during Pogner’s pompous speech. Rightly so, I’m afraid to say, because Jongmin Park lets the role down. He has a big, deep voice, but produced a hollow, expressionless barreling bellow, paired with stiff acting that would have been better suited to a 1960s Sarastro.

The whole lot of Mastersingers: Sachs: Zeppenfeld, Pogner: Jongmin Park, Vogelgesang: Martin Koch, Nachtigal: Marek Reichert, Beckmesser: Nagy, Kothner: Shanahan, Zorn: Daniel Jenz, Eisslinger: Matthew Newlin, Moser: Gideon Poppe, Ortel: Alexander Grassauer, Schwarz: Tijl Faveyts, Foltz: Patrick Zielke

Wagner, if it needs reminding (and pace Markus Thiel), certainly had humor – just not exactly slapstick humor. His was a deeper-seated, slyly mocking Saxon type. It’s everywhere in this piece, not just in the obvious situational comedy of Beckmesser. Speaking of which: Michael Nagy sang him with a delightfully purring voice and agile but didn’t always seem to take the character quite seriously – a pity, because it defangs Beckmesser unnecessarily and undermines the dramatic tension. His goofiness baited laughs, which is fine, but often papered over subtler moments, too. That Nagy can do otherwise became clear during his moment of reflection and the accompanying flicker of seriousness after the failed song trial.

While act II – with an oversized half-timbered dollhouse garnished with a phone booth turned into a Little Free Library – extends the first act’s world, the opening of Act III breaks from the squarely romanticized half-timbered idyll. Instead, we see Sachs’ realistically outfitted workshop, a chic oval set, smack in the middle of the stage. Sachs is shown gluing back together the stool David used to wallop Beckmesser in the riot scene, a business that gives him plenty of time to ignore David. Again, Matthias Davids offers solid, craftsman-like ideas here. In strict adherence to Chekhov’s law of not putting a freshly glued chair on the floor if no one will try to sit on it later, Beckmesser will, of course, be victimized a second time by that rude piece of furniture.

Spyres, Zeppenfeld, Nilsson, Mayer, Stier, Act III

Singers: Thanks to the bright, spontaneous voice of Christina Nilsson’s, a touch steely at the peaks and garnished with a pronounced ‘accent-vibrato’, her Eva was consequently easy to hear and occasionally even possible to understand. The first comment about Georg Zeppenfeld is always: “like a rock.” And like your above-average rock, he’s dependable, solid, sympathetic – and, dare one say it, just a tiny bit boring. Pale-ish, but on a very high level. Christa Mayer’s Magdalene had good diction but little warmth of timbre; by contrast, Matthias Stier’s rosy-cheeked David was a sonorous, entertaining delight from start to finish.

The “baritenor” label for Spyres is more marketing flourish than unique selling point, but his first Walther impressed: lyrical, with a creamy fullness, occasionally caramel-tinged but never overdriven, all evening long. Had it not been for the Meistersinger production earlier that month, at the MüPa Wagner Days (English review forthcoming, German review here), which featured Magnus Vigilius’ Walther, that would have been considered top of the line. But the latter (who also turned in the most moving Siegmund I have ever heard, at the previous “Budapesti Wagner Napok” (Bayreuth an der Donau: Die Wagner-Tage in Budapest sind ein Geheimtipp), had that added bit of youthful enthusiasm and irresistibly charming Sturm-und-Drang air about him, that made the character even more relatable and the story all the more touching.

Michael Nagy as Beckmesser, Act III

Gatti conducted fluidly and with finesse – not something one might have expected from rehearsals, apparently – coaxing an exceptionally beautiful, wafting “Fliederduften” from the orchestra. He did grow ever louder in Act II, which pushed his Sachs to the brink of audibility, which might have been avoided: In this conversational piece, after all, you’ll want to understand as much of the text as is humanly possible. The near-unanimous, enthusiastic cheering already between the acts suggested that Davids’ idea (the director’s, not the character’s) – to simply let Meistersinger be the Meistersinger, after two cerebral, over-interpreted Bayreuth stagings, Katharina Wagner’s and Berry Kosky’s – made sense. Do not be mislead by the most-publicized picture of the production, which shows a neon-colored blow-up cow arching over the Festwiese, which has the halmark look of what some (misguided, but that's for another day) people might call a "Eurotrash" or "Regietheater" production. It was the very opposite. Some Bayreuthians may have even felt a warm Wolfgang-Wagner glow, during this appeasing, traditional production. (Incidentally, Michael Schulz’ seasoned Budapest production works along the same lines and does it even more successfully.)

The applause was strikingly friendly, but also surprisingly brief. Fair enough, because the production surely wasn’t bad, it simply could – and will – be better, still!

Michael Spyres, Act III

All pictures courtesy Bayreuther Festspiele, © Enrico Nawrath

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Critic’s Notebook: A Dreamboot Rheingold in Vienna

Also published in Die Presse: „Rheingold“ an der Wiener Staatsoper: Ein Sternstundenabend

R.Wagner, Das Rheingold H.v.Karjana / Berlin Phil DG

R.Wagner, Das Rheingold M.Janowski / RSO Berlin Pentatone SACD

R.Wagner, Das Rheingold P.Boulez / P.Chéreau / Bayreuth FO Unitel DVD

A harmonious, resplendent, and thoroughly entertaining cast delivers a thoroughly glorious Rheingold at the Vienna State Opera.

That E-flat major chord at the start of Das Rheingold: every time it appears out of nowhere, it stirs something in you: a journey begins. And what a journey it is: a deceptively calm opening that soon gives way to one of the most brisk, action-packed, and downright funny operas in the repertory—two and a half hours that sail by in a steady current. Sven-Eric Bechtolf’s production has been on the books at the Vienna State Opera for nearly two decades, and yet it remains captivatingly fresh. The staging is classically timeless: each scene a sparsely furnished tableau that sparks the imagination rather than smothering it. Add a cast this breathtakingly good—as it was on Wednesday night (May 27th)—and the result is pure delight.

As always, all good things begin with three slinky ladies. The sleek, sinewy water nymphs—Iliana Tonca, Isabel Signoret, and Stephanie Maitland, in clingy green algae-gowns—formed a sonorous, well-blended trio that gave Jochen Schmeckenbecher’s convincing bad-boy Alberich quite the hard time.

“Deiner Hand, Donner, entsinkt ja der Hammer!”

A good example of the production’s thoughtful, cheeky staging: the scene where the giants pay their visit to the gods. Wotan and company strike picture-perfect deity poses—Keeping Up Appearances, Wagner-style. Or the moment when the spears of Fasolt and Fafner (Ilja Kazakov and Kwangchul Youn, dressed like the boulder-beasts from The NeverEnding Story) start heat up as Loge lays a hand on them. Daniel Behle’s Loge, in a performance that would have made Heinz Zednik proud, combined sharp-edged delivery with youthful zing.

Donner’s hammer, housed in a Swarovski-encrusted instrument case, still elicits an inner chuckle. That he was sung by Martin Hässler—fresh-faced, cocky, and with a whiff of Falco—only made it better. (When his hammer slipped from his grip—not in Scene II, as scripted, but in Scene IV—it caused a brief moment of audience amusement, but was professionally played off.) There really wasn’t a whole lot one could have wanted more, cast- and acting-wise, though Freia’s dutifully serious “Dünkt euch Holda wirklich der Lösung werth?” (“Are you certain I am worthy the ransom?”) might have benefited from a hint of sarcasm.

Wotan, head of the celestial household, was sung by Scottish bass-baritone Iain Paterson, making his role debut at the house. There have been louder Wotans, or nobler ones—but few as articulate. Paterson’s flawless diction, extraordinarily sensitive phrasing, and text-driven intensity were a constant dramatic asset. A strong match: Monika Bohinec’s commanding, penetrating Fricka—mature, but (just) not yet overripe.

Michael Laurenz’s young, wild Mime, decked out in a mechanic’s jumpsuit, was a casting luxury—proof that this role doesn’t need to be handed to a wheezy character tenor. If one were inclined to quibble about Regine Hangler’s sonorously squeaky Freia—more siren (the maritime, not homeric kind) than goddess—well, that would be nitpicking at a very high level. Contributing to that level of luxury was Anna Kissjudit, making her house debut. She’d already made an impression as Mary in The Flying Dutchman in Budapest; as Erda—earthy and with a distinct vocal hue—she was even more convincing and earned a round of special applause.

The orchestra held up remarkably well through it all. The scenes involving the Ring’s powers burst out with sharp, overwhelming force. The unstable-sounding brass during the prelude was submerged in the the surging musical waves—and soon regained their footing. The anvils, alas, clanged on irritably: too loud or too tinny—probably both. Philippe Jordan’s conducting, strict but ever-forward-flowing, was a far better fit here than in his unsensual Tannhäuser. One could argue about Jordan’s Wagner—but who wants to quibble after an evening like this?


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