Mariola Cantarero (Zulema), Mariá José Suárez (Almeraya), Ana Ibarra (Isabel), José Bros (Gonzalo), David Rubiera (Boabdil), Ángel Ódena (Lara), Alastair Miles (Muley-Hassem), David Menéndez (Alamar)

 r. live July 2006 Teatro Real, Madrid

 Coro y Orquesta Sinfónica de Madrid c. Jesús López Cobos

Dynamic CDS 618/1-2 (2 discs 133 minutes)

It is always instructive to find a work that lies at a tangent to a central tradition, as it invariably shows familiar works in a different context. Emilio Arrieta (1821-94) is a composer associated with Zarzuela; his Marina remains a central pillar of that repertoire, he collaborated with Antonio García Gutiérrez, who is known to Verdi scholars as the playwright of El trovador (Il trovatore) and Simon Boccanegra, and his pupils included Chapí and Bretón. But, before this Arrieta studied at the Milan Conservatoire and completed two Italian operas of which La conquista di Granata (1850) is the second. It boasts a libretto by Temistocle Solera, who wrote five libretti for Verdi, notably his first opera Oberto, and his early successes Nabucco and I Lombardi. Returning to Spain, Arrieta became a favourite of Queen Isabel II, who made him Composer-Director of the Teatro Real, Madrid, where La conquista was successfully premiered. It achieved a second run five years later, and was then buried, until two concert performances in 2006, again at the Teatro Real; the basis of this recording, which coincides with the publication of a critical edition of the score.

The plot concerns the Catholic monarch’s siege of the Alhambra, the last Muslim stronghold and conflicts and relationships within and without. We hear a young composer steeped in the idioms of early Verdi, and while there is much stock material lacking the master’s propulsive energy, melodic genius and instinct for streamlined construction, there is also a quirky individuality at work. Attention is held by an intermittent melodic lopsidedness, as if Berlioz were trying to write within the foursquare constraints of the lingua franca of 1840’s Italian opera, some refined orchestration and harmonic and musicianly qualities that are more reminiscent of Mercadante. There are occasional (not enough) Moorish inflections that surprise within their context, and are very attractive and catchy. Much of the first act is routine, culminating in a father-daughter duet that cannot compare to Verdi’s many essays in this vein. But before, there is an offstage soprano aria Molle zeffiro del cielo, sung by the half-Moorish girl Zulema that has a delicious oriental tint and striking orchestration of tremolo strings, harp and a curious double bass pizzicato riff that almost hints at a tango. Interestingly, this scoring reappears several times in Zulema’s later music – almost a leit-texture. Both performance and music liven up considerably in the later acts: the mezzo Queen Isabella has a lovely visionary aria about Columbus Sola, io sola, with a virtuoso flute obbligato, and a rousing duet Prendi, la lama, and there is a prison scene in the last act which contains two heavenly visions and a prayer:  music of real inspiration. Structurally, the piece lives moment by moment. There is a very catchy concertato in Act Two, but it sounds incomplete and it, in fact finishes the act without a stretto, and the final scene of religious conversion is both musically and dramatically perfunctory.

The Madrid forces under Jesús López Cobos give a highly sprung rhythmic performance, with much attractive solo playing – the flute has a very busy night, featuring in many arias and in an almost Bizet-style intermezzo. The chorus is bright, forwardly placed and well blended. As Zulema, Mariola Cantarero has a slightly backward placed soprano which despite an attractive timbre can sound strained – she is capable of very musical phrasing that does full justice to her many showpieces, yet her tone can splinter under pressure. José Bros, as Gonzalo, her Christian lover, displays a focused tenor sound, that is slightly pinched in the upper register – both tend to lurch ill-advisedly to extreme, presumably interpolated, high notes. Ana Ibarra is Queen Isabel, a part for a Donizetti rather than a Verdi mezzo. She has an attractive timbre, but sounds tremulous in her demanding opening aria. She comes into her own in her last act scena. Alastair Miles similarly takes a while to warm up, but rises to the Prison scene with great warmth of tone. The supporting cast is strong. Recording quality is spacious, but some tutti passages sound constricted and occasionally murky. I’m not sure the opera would bear repeated listening, but as a footnote in the history of Italian – or Spanish – opera, there is much to enjoy. Excellent notes and booklet. 

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

 JULIAN GRANT 2009

Serena Daolio (Marcella), Natalizia Carone (Clara), Angelica Girardi (Raimonda), Mara D’Antini (Eliana), Maria Rosa Rondinelli (Lea), Danilo Formaggio (Giorgio), Marcello Rosiello (Vernier), Pierluigi Dilengite (Drasco), Giovanni Coletta (Barthélemy), Graziano De Pace (Flament) )

 Orchestra Internazionale d’Italia, c. Manlio Benzi

 Dynamic CDS 573 (64 minutes)

Amica  Mascagni

Anna Malavasi (Amica), Francesca De Giorgi (Magdelone), David Sotgiu (Giorgio), Pierluigi Dilengite (Rinaldo), Marcello Rosiello (MaÎtre Camoine)

 Orchestra Internazionale d’Italia, Bratislava Chamber Choir c. Manlio Benzi

 Dynamic CDS 574 (78 minutes)

These live recordings derive from the Festival della Valle d’Itria at Martina Franca Festival (reviewed in OPERA, December 2007). As both of these operas are among the least known by their respective composers, the presentation is good, with detailed liner notes. Marcella has not previously been recorded, but Amica, Mascagni’s only opera with a French libretto, was recorded in 1996, with Katia Ricciarelli, in a later Italian version. The recording quality for both operas is constricted and congested, the orchestra often covering voices in moments of climax.  Stage noise can be most intrusive, particularly in Marcella where the hushed conclusion is wrecked by clumping footsteps. The conductor, Manlio Benzi, paces and phrases with sensitivity, though the orchestra is too small for these ripe idioms, and sounds increasingly ragged, particularly in Mascagni’s stentorian climaxes.  There are a few disconcerting moments when stage and pit part company.

Marcella was not a success in 1907: its most famous aria, Dolce notte misterioso, was added for a 1938 revival with Tito Schipa, who later recorded the aria. The opera charts very stale waters indeed; an incognito prince, a Parisian restaurant and a lovers idyll were over-mined seams for Italian bourgeois opera and despite Giordano’s customary craft and extreme compactness (three acts last just over an hour), every moment recalls situations from a slew of much stronger works: La traviata, Manon(s), bohème(s), and Zazà, as well as pre-empting La rondine. Giordano, who revered Massenet, and whose publisher Sonzogno, promoted many of the French master’s works in Italy, closely modeled the first act’s interplay of café music and orchestra on Sapho (1897), and appropriated the third act prelude of Chérubin (1905) for his own third act. More bare-facedly, Giordano rewrites his tenor hit Amor ti vieta from Fedora in O mia Marcella in Act Two: it is demonstrably a retread, with salient features blunted. Serena Daolio and Danilo Formaggio as the lovers, the only roles with any profile, have attractive youthful timbres, though her top register can be wayward and her tuning occasionally imprecise.

Amica (1905) was Mascagni’s return to composition after the vainglorious stunt of premiering his previous opera, Le Maschere, at six Italian theatres on the same night in 1901, backfired. As if re-launching his career, he signed a contract with French publisher Choudens who provided the librettist, Paul Bérel, a pseudonym for Paul de Choudens, from the family firm. It had a stellar send-off in Monte-Carlo with Geraldine Farrar and Maurice Renaud, but failed to make an impression. Structurally, as a short two-acter with intermezzo, it resembles Cavalleria Rusticana, but its Alpine milieu and wayward heroine recall Catalani’s La Wally. The opera starts promisingly with a passage for tuned cowbells and oboe, and a carefully composed pastoral chorus that turns into a Hymn to the Sun, though much less imposing than that which opens his Japanese opera Iris (1898). As the opera progresses the inspiration grows more fitful and the execution careless, mirroring the increasing lack of structure and psychological credibility in the libretto. The intermezzo is memorable, but climaxes too soon, and the one passage that is intended to bear genuine dramatic weight; an evocation of the lure of the mountain heights, is banal and square; a composite of the Ride of the Valkyries and the avalanche music in La Wally. Mascagni’s attempts to spice his harmonic palette with non-sequitur modulations that tend to lurch back to the home key via commonplace cadences, make for queasy listening, and he imposes no musical structure on the libretto: the opera degenerates into a rant.

Anna Malavasi’s dark soprano is ideal for Amica, and she negotiates Mascagni’s violent declamation with aplomb, though it sounds unidiomatic in French – more Mascagni’s fault than hers. David Sotgiu, as the weakling brother (who nevertheless outruns heroine and macho brother up a mountain side) has a whitish tenor voice that manages the impossibly strenuous tessitura with vulnerability yet not strain, a laudable attempt to do justice to an impossibly conceived role. The remaining cast is not as good, particularly the baritone brother, whose clotted timbre runs roughshod over the score, often a beat or three short of his notated entries. Interesting insights into cobwebbed corners of the repertoire, to be sure, but one cannot argue with history’s implacable verdict on both pieces.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2008

 Sarah Tynan (Monique), Alinka Kozári (Lucille), Anna Leese (Laura), Josephine Thorpe (Dominic’s Grandmother), Patricia Orr (Yolande), Nicholas Sharratt (Prince Dominic), Patrick Ashcroft (A Suitor), George von Bergen (Edward)

 The Departure

 Louise Poole (Julia), Håkan Vramsmo (Mark)

 Chorus and Ensemble of Independent Opera at Sadler’s Wells c. Dominic Wheeler

Chandos CHAN 10508 (70 minutes)

These brief one-acters, revived for the centenary of Maconchy’s birth by Independent Opera (a showcase company for young opera professionals) at Sadler’s Wells in 2007, are given further exposure by this Chandos studio recording, funded by the Peter Moore’s Foundation, who have done so much for Opera in English. They were assessed in depth, in the January 2008 issue, by Tim Ashley, who gave them a not-quite convinced endorsement.  A third one-act work, The Three Strangers, based on Thomas Hardy, remains un-revived, and given the length of these two, could possibly fill out an evening to make an English Trittico.

 I did not see these operas staged, but as a listener I found The Sofa to be the more rewarding of the two – the opposite to Tim Ashley. Maybe the updating of The Sofa –from the librettist’s nineteenth century to a present day rave submerged the craft and poise of this rather coy sex comedy. Those familiar with the uncompromising string quartets are in for a shock, the language is tonal, sharply parodic, yet woven into a fabric that absorbs a wealth of allusions to vernacular dance music and deepens out into something more individual and telling – the interplay of ‘vapid party music’ – Ashley’s words, not mine – and other material works well enough for La traviata, and does so again here, and the transitions from solo to ensemble are effortless and masterly. It is a shame that more salient material is not reprised, as many memorable ideas whizz past without being consolidated, and Maconchy balks at nailing a scene or situation with an expected climax.

I wasn’t so convinced by The Departure, an elegiac colloquy between the dead and living that reminded me, in musical language and subject matter, of Holst’s Savitri. The musical material has less profile, and the construction is more haphazard. Several promising lyrical moments disperse too soon, the alternation between cantabile singing and spoken declamation –a challenge for any singer to deliver convincingly, and not well managed here – repeatedly breaks the spell. The one allusion to dance music, a bitter-sweet waltz reminiscence, unlike those in The Sofa, seems out of character with the prevailing musical landscape. Surely the crucial revelation that it is Julia, and not her husband who is dead, comes too early in the piece and is volunteered too casually. The whole work is pitched at an emotional mezzo-forte which never quite clinches, though there are arresting ideas and textures. Anne Ridler’s libretto proves resistible; the sincerity is not in doubt, but there are jolting turns of phrase (‘Joy is afar over the Alps of loss’)which prove momentarily undermining. Nevertheless, both pieces strike me as more rewarding than the late one-acters of Holst and Walton, and deserve wider currency.

Some of the reservations Tim Ashley made concerning the performances are ameliorated by the recording. Diction is clearer and the voices are not overbearing, rather they are put in a pleasing aural perspective (both onstage and off) within a generous, yet natural ambience. In The Sofa, Nicholas Sharratt dominates; his tightish tenor is not the most flexible instrument, but the profligate Prince Dominic is well-characterized.  Sarah Tynan phrases nicely as Monique, coping well with Maconchy’s alluring and shapely high register writing. Josephine Thorpe as Dominic’s Grandmother, is lamb not convincing as mutton: there are legions of redoubtable operatic trouts who would not need acting to bring this short yet crucial cameo to life, even though such casting is presumably beyond the remit of this youth-oriented company. In The Departure, Louise Poole’s performance as Julia is not as comfortable a listen as her glowing stage reviews led me to expect. Though designated a mezzo-soprano role, it lies consistently high and requires an expansive legato maybe more suited to a clear soprano: here such phrases sound tense and stretched, though there are some ravishing high floated notes. Inevitably, diction is a casualty. Not so with Håkan Vramsmo, who gives an intense performance with crisp enunciation. Dominic Wheeler leads the Independent Opera Ensemble with a good ear for colour, rhythmic clarity and a wide range of dynamics.  Packaging is to Chandos’s usual exemplary standard, with highly informative notes from Stephen Pettitt.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2009

Renée Fleming with

Saito Kaoru, Emma Latis, Lucia Mencaroni, Barbara Vignudelli (soprano), Annalisa Dessi (mezzo soprano), Paolo Cautoruccio, Arturo Chacón-Cruz, Jonas Kaufmann (tenor), Marco Calabrese, Carlos Gomez (baritone), Gilles Armani (bass)

 Coro e Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano, Giuseppe Verdi c. Marco Armiliato

 Arias from La Bohème (Leoncavallo and Puccini), Conchita, Fedora, Gloria, Iris, Lodoletta, Manon Lescaut, La rondine, Siberia, Suor Angelica, Turandot, La Wally, Zazà

Verismo (‘truth’) is a most misused word: usually (as here) it is applied, carelessly, to almost all late-romantic Italian opera after Verdi, or maybe a style of vocal utterance where bel canto is swept away by emphatic declamation and over the top emoting. In an assiduously researched programme note Renée Fleming makes the case for a lighter, lyric voice in this repertoire, citing a list of forbears (including Claudia Muzio, Mafalda Favero, Magda Olivero and Rosanna Carteri) as models, while respectfully acknowledging the ‘iconic’, but heavier voiced interpretations of Callas, Tebaldi, Freni and Scotto. In fact, none of the latter four ladies were dramatic sopranos –Freni (a definitive Susanna) and Scotto (likewise Lucia) came to roles like Fedora at the end of their careers, when their voices were not as versatile as they once were. This is not the case with Fleming (who sings Rossini’s coloratura enchantress Armida at the Met this season) who here chooses excerpts within her lyric fach, though in fact this period is not new to her, many late romantic Italian plums by Puccini, Catalani, Cilea and co. have appeared on earlier recitals, notably a 2001 disc with Mackerras.

As for ‘truth’, I’m not sure we get it here. Fleming fans will not be disappointed; she is in glowing voice and is attentive to diction, and to a lesser extent, character. However, I’m not convinced that this material suits her. The same care which she took in preparing her notes results in a lack of spontaneity, and fussiness of execution in music that requires emotional directness to make its point. Take the opening item: Senza Mamma, from Suor Angelica. The line is never quite left alone, it is intercut with little catches of breath and tiny slides. Turn to Magda Olivero and you find more   refinement, a longer, more direct sense of line, more specific nuance, including a telling observance of staccati at the close, and stricter tempo. Fleming makes these ‘little women’ – Puccini’s Mimì, Liu and Mascagni’s Lodoletta included – sound calculating and not nearly fragile enough. Her lustrous but slightly backwardly placed sound, and comparatively occluded diction place her at a disadvantage. Just compare her to specialists in these styles from Carla Gavazzi and Augusta Oltrabella to Denia Mazzola and Diane Soviero (whose 1995 Verismo recital contains similar rarities) and they all have a slimmer, even wiry open sound.  Even the more lyric approach from say, Freni and Maria Chiara reveals diction with more forward bite. 

Still there are surprises: Fleming’s Iris is pacier, and more involved than Scotto’s on her classic 1974 verismo disc, she sings the lovely solos from Siberia and Cilea’s Gloria cleanly. She saves her greatest involvement for, of all things, the final scene of Fedora.

The recital is scrupulously planned, with the repertoire offering a mix of the familiar and rare (though not as recherché as in Fleming’s recent ‘Homage’); and steps are taken to alleviate torpor, a danger when most arias are slow and expressive. Witness the two operetta-ish excerpts from Leoncavallo’s Bohème, Iris’s frantically declaimed dream of a sea-serpent, and Conchita’s catchy five-in-a-bar account of dealing with three suitors which provide up-tempo contrast. There are less familiar solos from familiar operas (La Wally, La rondine) and even a world premiere recording of Puccini’s first thoughts for Manon Lescaut’s Sola, perduta, abbandonata! with different text in places, a more organic transition to the middle section, and a clunkingly awful vocal and orchestral peroration – still, instructive to hear once. An extensive supporting cast and chorus are also in the mix, with a luxurious cameo from Jonas Kaufmann in the quartet from La rondine along with fully cast chunks of Liu’s death in Turandot and the finale to Fedora.  A real novelty is the extended scene (of quite revolting sentimentality) from Leoncavallo’s Zazà involving a speaking child and a piano lesson. Orchestral playing is nuanced, and details such as tuned gongs in Iris and rasping trumpet dissonances in Conchita, register. Recording ambience is natural, capturing Fleming’s voice faithfully without cocooning her in artificial resonance. It’s an interesting, and intermittently captivating listen, but I cannot help but think Dvorˇák, Massenet and Strauss suit this diva better.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2009

A Film by Elisabeth Kapnist

NVC Arts 50 51865 211525 (58 minutes)

One might have thought that Chaliapin would be a fascinating subject for a film biography, as there is much source material to choose from; his memoirs, dictated to his close friend Maxim Gorky, an extensive discography, some choice film footage and many colourful reminiscences from the likes of Rachmaninov, an apologist for Chaliapin’s backstage brawling, Rosa Ponselle and Geraldine Farrar on the art of upstaging, Massenet on the hysterics attending the play-through of Don Quichotte, and much, much more.

Nothing so vivid here, alas. Instead, an impressionist travelogue, incorporating the memoirs as a voice-over, wafts us through a vaguely chronological account of Chaliapin’s career up to the Russian Revolution, after that, it deals with his international celebrity in the west perfunctorily. There is a scattergun appliqué of images, footage and music of hit-and-miss relevance. Threaded throughout are interviews with Sergei Leiferkus, bass Alexei Mochalov, the director Boris Pokrovsky, theatre writer Anatoly Smeliansky, violinist and conductor Vladimir Spivakov and Marina Freddi, one of Chaliapin’s daughters. Only the last seems at ease on camera, and delivers some touching reminiscences. The others seem lost.  Leiferkus is introduced singing the first of Mussorgsky’s Songs and Dances of Death (uncredited), segued by a discourse on Chaliapin’s way with performing folk music. Then, in a segment on Stanislavsky and Chaliapin’s immersion in theatre, he dries embarrassingly, telling a none too relevant anecdote about Chaliapin leaving the theatre in his Mephisto costume and scaring a cabby – surely a retake was necessary. Pokrovsky and Smeliansky offer platitudes about our hero’s Russian-ness, and dramatic truth, nothing specific enough is said. Mochalov give a voice production lesson to a student, yet doesn’t discuss Chaliapin’s voice production, legendary breath control and unusual (for a Russian bass) timbre, being more baritonal than the basso profondo of the choir tradition – it is fleetingly mentioned in passing, almost as an aside.

The chronology comes adrift after a segment on Chaliapin clashing with Toscanini at Mefistofele rehearsals (La Scala 1901), implying that he went straight to a new triumph in Don Quichotte  – which was 1910: Massenet‘s name is never mentioned. We do get to see enticing snippets of the film he made with Pabst in 1933. This is followed by Diaghilev’s production of Boris Godunov (1908), where it is explained how successful the Ballet Russes were with the Polovtsian Dances. Funny – I’d always thought they were from Prince Igor – maybe Diaghilev put them into Boris to liven it up. There is no mention that Boris was catapulted into the international repertoire by this benchmark event. Chaliapin’s reasons for leaving Russia in the revolution are unclear. This film won a prize somewhere for best documentary. Go figure! There is a two column blurb on the inside DVD jacket, written by John Steane, which brings the subject to instant life and saves wasting an hour.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2009

Anne-Lise Sollied (Rosaura), Elena Rossi (Marionette), Mark Milhofer (Il Conte di Bosco Nero), Emanuele D’Aguanno (Monsieur Le Bleau), Luca Favaron (Folletto), Maurizio Muraro (Milord Runebif), Antonio Casagrande (Un servo di Don Alvaro), Riccardo Zanellato (Don Alvaro di Castiglia), Alex Esposito (Arlecchino), Claudio Zancopè (Birif)

Orchestra and Chorus of the Teatro La Fenice, Venice c. Karl Martin

Naxos 8.660225-6 (2 discs 142 minutes)

This is the fourth (out of five) Wolf-Ferrari comedies, based on Carlo Goldoni, a work that is referred to as one of his lesser pieces. It is a civilized, rather than rambunctious experience, taking its cue perhaps from Goldoni’s stylized and often schematic take on the world of the commedia dell’arte. Rosaura, the shrewd widow of the title, wishes to remarry, and four suitors, from Italy, Spain, France and England attempt to win her. She and her maid contrive to test them, with the Italian proving faithful and winning the prize. With such an improbable plot, it is a comedy of stock situation and archetype, rather than character or psychology: Cosi fan tutte it ain’t.

This recording taken from two live performances during a run at La Fenice has also been released as a DVD, where presumably there are subtitles. Here, an Italian libretto available online (with CD track cues) and a fairly detailed synopsis make following this wordy opus problematic. Strangely, it is the second recording of the work in a few years – the previous one, from 2005, in a series of rare operas from Montpellier on the Accord label is not a budget recording, as is Naxos, but is sumptuously packaged, and can be found online at reduced prices. It even boasts the same widow, Rosaura, sung by Norwegian soprano Anne-Lise Sollied.

Recording quality is natural and not too shallow for a live recording, with a pleasing resonance. Sometimes the singers are caught a little close, though Anna-Lise Sollied is a veteran of this opera, she takes a while to warm up, and the high-lying tessitura of the waltz-duet in Act One, one of the few extended melodic moments, and a little lyrical oasis in the expository first act is rather fierce. Her maid, Marionette, has an acidic top register that does not mellow as the evening progresses, which is a drawback. Their voices are rather too similar, and neither exudes enough vocal or verbal allure to give dramatic lift to their scenes. The men are better, Mark Milhofer as the Italian Count has a tremor on occasion, but phrases nicely in his little set-pieces, Emanuele D’Aguanno is more polished vocally, but has less to do. Of the others, Alex Esposito as the servant Arlecchino, is the most spirited, though Riccardo Zanellato as the swaggering Spanish grandee has a nice sense of character. The La Fenice forces are kept on a tight rein by Karl Martin.

Goldoni was a successful librettist himself, collaborating with Galuppi and Piccinni among others, but his librettos abide by the set-piece conventions of the mid eighteenth century. Wolf-Ferrari, employing a more flexible melos, fillets the original play text for his uses, but at two hours and twenty minutes the piece feels too long. It is wordy, in a musical language that appropriates gestures from Falstaff back in time through the opera buffa tradition. It’s not that the musical language is about fifty years out from its 1931 composition date – thankfully we have moved on from such a twentieth century view of musical progress in this polymorphous age -  it’s that the language (unlike neo-classical Stravinsky or Strauss in Ariadne) has no ‘take’ on the tradition it alludes to. Instead, we get a freeze-dried relic echoing earlier eras, with the juice extracted. There is occasional (seemingly arbritrary) use of a piano for snatches of secco recitativo, a few tiny bursts of orchestral fireworks, but nary an ensemble or culmination and no memorable melodies. Instructively, the live recording has audience rustle, little reaction and almost no laughter.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2009

Elena Ustinova (The Queen of Shemaka), Olga Shalaeva (The Golden Cockerel), Raisa Kotova (Amelfa), Boris Tarkhov (Astrologer), Viacheslav Voinarovsky (Tsarevitch Guidon), Alexei Mochalov (General Polkan), Vladimir Svistov (Tsarevitch Afron), Yevgeny Nesterenko (Tsar Dodon)

 All-Union Radio and Television Academic Grand Choir, Academic Symphony Orchestra of Moscow State Philharmonic c. Dmitri Kitaenko

Melodiya MEL CD 10 01398 (2 discs 123 minutes)

For such a well-known piece, The Golden Cockerel has an extremely patchy recording history, and there never has been a recommendable version. The 2002 DVD, on TDK, with Kent Nagano from the Châtelet, is the best bet.

There is much to enjoy in this version, but be warned: unless you are a fan and know the piece, you will be lost. Revamped Melodiya packaging is compact and delightfully arrayed with the inevitable Bilibin images, but notes are skimpy and badly translated. There is no libretto, an inadequate synopsis, and no date or provenance for this recording, which I estimate to be around 1987, when Kitaenko was nearing the end of his tenure with the Moscow State Philharmonic (1976-90). It seems to have been released in the West, on black disc, for a very short time about then.

It is the playing and conducting that is striking. Kitaenko has a way with the idiom, and while relishing the impressionist textures, and delivering nuanced allure in spades, brings a lightness of touch to the lumbering humour of the asinine Tsar Dodon and points the laboured and intentionally mechanical sequences of his idiot court with humour and satire. The piece sounds like an opera-buffa with a sinister undertow, and benefits from the pace and lightness. Moments of acute instrumental characterization abound, such as the scene with the Tsar and his parrot: the cor-anglais phrasing is a humorous delight. There are a couple of strange accidents early on in the long scene with the Queen in Act Two, which one would have thought justified a retake. The recording quality is occasionally bizarre, and this seems to be intentional: there is an incipient echo effect that ‘enhances’ the sinuous chromatic Queen of Shemaka music – it’s not too annoying, but is surely over-egging the pudding. Otherwise the balance (for a Russian recording of this period) is clear, occasionally too spot-lit, but not boomy or congested, and the instrumental invention, essential to this work, registers well.

Nesterenko had a distinguished recording career, both in Russia and in the West, but he was never a histrionic interpreter in the Chaliapin/Christoff mould – his major asset was a honeyed plush velvet timbre. Here he is past his prime and his voice sounds dry. This does not seem a natural role for him and his attempts at characterization sometimes play havoc with intonation. The impossible tessitura of the Astrologer, written for a tenor-altino is manipulated cleverly by Boris Tarkhov; he gets all the notes, sometimes by resorting to a falsetto recorded in close-up, but his is not the right timbre for the role – phrasing is choppy and effortful, and the rueful lyricism essential to this role does not emerge. Best by far, is Elena Ustinova as the Queen of Shemaka: her soft-edged timbre and musical phrasing provide exactly the frissons required in this exacting music, and her intonation in the tricky oriental-scale roulades is pretty accurate – an occasional high D or E is uneasy, but not too disturbing, and she characterizes well, turning like a snake when required. The lesser roles are all very well sung.

Alternative CD recordings are hard to find. The only one currently available is live from the 1971 New York City Opera production (in English) with Norman Treigle and Beverly Sills. It’s a fun showbiz turn, but the opera is not a burlesque panto, and the cuts and awful sound are a trial. An older Melodiya recording from the early 1960’s comes and goes from the catalogue; it has better interpreters of Dodon and the Astrologer – Alexei Korolev and Gennadi Pishchayev – but an acidulous Queen, credits two conductors (?) and has a characteristic blaring Soviet-era mono recording. A 1961 RAI version from Rome, very hard to find, boasts Boris Christoff and a gorgeous Gianna d’Angelo, but the conductor seems to think it’s Parsifal and the experience is leaden. A mediocre 1985 CD from Sofia, recently available on Capriccio completes a dodgy bunch. Kitaenko’s is the best for the time being, but a new version is surely way overdue.

[first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2009

Renata Scotto (Francesca), Nicole Lorange (Samaritana), Natalia Rom (Biancofiore), Gail Robinson  (Garsenda), Isola Jones (Smaragdi), Gail Dubinbaum (Altichiara), Claudia Catania (Adonella), Placido Domingo (Paolo), William Lewis (Malatestino), Cornell Macneil (Gianciotto), Richard Fredricks (Ostasio), Anthony Laciura (Ser Toldo Berardengo), Brian Schexnayder (Simonetto), John Darrencamp (Berlingerio)

 Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Chorus and Ballet c. James Levine p. Piero Faggioni d. Ezio Frigerio & Franca Squarciapino video director Brian Large

DG 00440 073 4313 (150 minutes)

Poor Zandonai! To be so publicly anointed by doyenne of Italian publishers, Tito Ricordi, as Puccini’s successor, only to climax prematurely, at the age of thirty, with Francesca da Rimini, and never recapture his inspiration in later works, has led to his wholesale dismissal by the critical fraternity, who, in any case tend to think of this whole era of Italian opera as unworthy of serious consideration. This is unjust, his music has an individual flavour, if perhaps some of the material is under par: crucially, by no stretch of the imagination is he a compelling melodist. But in a performance as committed as this one, Francesca is revealed to have its own very special juices: and is more imaginatively and fluently composed than most works by his Italian contemporaries, Puccini, of course, excepted. This is the sort of spectacle the Met does best: hyper-detailed sets and costumes of extreme opulence by husband and wife team Ezio Frigerio and Franca Squarciapino, compellingly evoking 13^th century Rimini, contrasting poetry and squeamish violence in an effective visual marriage of Burne Jones and Mad Max. This is complemented by detailed direction from Piero Faggioni, helped by a starry cast.

And the piece does need help: it is the only opera based on a D’Annunzio play that comes close to working, thanks to Tito Ricordi’s (here acting as librettist for his protégé) ruthless pollarding of reams of perfumed verbiage: even so, the minimal narrative does at times lose direction, and, for viewers, the doubly pared-back surtitles become, on occasion, surreal.  Thus, it is no small measure of Zandonai’s skill that he shapes the big scenes into compelling musical paragraphs. Francesca, forced into a politically expedient marriage with Gianciotto, lame and brutish Lord of Rimini, is tricked into thinking that she will marry his younger and handsome brother Paolo, sent as emissary. Their initial encounter, and mutual infatuation concludes the first act with the opera’s most memorable scene, a hypnotically ravishing adagio where the lovers’ voices remain silent. The battle scene, where Francesca courts death by wandering on the battlements and Paolo, similarly declines to wear his helmet, is vulgarly effective and even if Zandonai achieves more volume than voltage, it is undeniably exciting, capped by a visual coup: a catapult of Greek fire that ignites at curtain fall.

James Levine gives a febrile, nuanced account of this heady brew of Italianate Wagner, Strauss and Debussy and the Met orchestra relishes the virtuoso demands of the scintillating score, the filigree detail of the orchestration (which some Italian commentators dubbed Stile Liberty, finding an aural equivalent to the term used in Italy for art nouveau design, at that time synonymous with the design brand from the London store) that even evokes pseudo-medievalism by including an onstage lute, and viola pomposa­ – here the eloquent Jascha Silverstein on ‘cello.

By 1984, Renata Scotto’s vocal condition could be perilous and harsh on top, but this role contains few forays into the upper reaches, and there are only a handful of acidulous top notes, though initially her tone is not the freshest. It is a measure of her personality that her highly stylized, almost choreographed acting style is so compelling, and not the slightest bit risible. Indeed, she is riveting in the last two acts: her phrasing, wealth of dynamic contrast, vocal colour and verbal acuity add up to a veritable operatic masterclass. Her curtain calls are telling: she seems unable, or unwilling to relinquish character. Plácido Domingo matches her well; he is in particularly honeyed voice and looks slim, young and handsome: the extended love duets are highly convincing. The veteran Cornell MacNeil, here in his sixties, though thinner in vocal allure than in his prime, is a thoroughly convincing thug, offering stentorian top notes – subtlety is not needed in this role.  William Lewis cuts a sinister figure as the one-eyed, youngest brother, Malatestino, though a tenor, his top register is frayed and perilous and not as resounding as MacNeil’s, neither is he the psychotic teenager described in the libretto. Stylish cameos by Natalia Rom as Francesca’s sister Samaritana, and Isola Jones as Francesca’s enigmatic companion, Smaragdi, complete a compelling cast. Video direction is mostly strong and clear, though there are some frustrating moments when the camera cuts away from Scotto in fullest flow to clock an irrelevant reaction shot.  Strongly recommended, if such decadent fare is your gout.  

Daniela Dessì (Francesca), Giacinta Nicotra (Samaritana), Rosella Bevacqua (Garsenda), Roberta Canzian (Biancofiore), Sabrina Modena (Adonella), Francesca Rinaldi (Altichiara), Angela Masi (Smaragdi), Fabio Armiliato (Paolo), L’udovít Ludha (Malatestino), Alberto Mastromarino (Gianciotto), Giuseppe Altomare (Ostasio), Francesco Zingariello (Ser Toldo Berardengo), Domenico Colaianni (Il giullare)Alessandro Pucci (Il balestriere)

 Coro Lirico Marchigiano “V.Bellini”, Orchestra Filarmonica Marchigiana c. Maurizio Barbacini  p&d. Massimo Gasparon video director Michelangelo Rossi

r. live Sferisterio Opera Festival, Macerata 2004

Arthaus Musik 101 363 (137 minutes)

The Sferisterio open-air theatre in Macerata is reputed to have excellent acoustics, in which case the sound-manipulation on this DVD is a mystery. Whatever sound format is chosen, everything registers as mezzo-forte. The filigree of Zandonai’s virtuoso orchestration is revealed in great detail, but balance between voices and orchestra sounds synthetic. Offstage effects are perilous: the tortured slave screaming in the last act is almost inaudible, as is the solo ‘cello that has the main melodic line in the rapt voiceless adagio which concludes the first act, yet the accompanying lute and high woodwind are piercing. A shame, as Maurizio Barbacini gives a pacy account of the score, and the orchestra copes well, for the most part, with the virtuoso score. Massimo Gasparon, who is responsible for production, design and lighting in this 2004 performance ignores the crepuscular, decadent sound-world of this opera, and opts for a single bisected dome, which does service for both battle scene and lovers’ boudoir, attractive, if garish, byzantine costumes and bright clinical lighting; as inappropriate here as it would be for Tristan und Isolde.  The stonework of the Sferistico gives a monumental Roman aspect – most inappropriate. The singers look stranded; more concerned with getting on and off set than acting their parts. Much of the blocking looks improvised; a peculiar nadir is Fabio Armiliato climbing onto the stone bed (or is it a tomb?) not once but twice and having to shuffle on his knees to get close to his innamorata.

A shame, as the lovers have the vocal guns to do justice to the score’s demands (as far as the manipulated sound enables you to tell) – which makes a wrenching downward transposition in the stentorian final duet inexplicable. Dessì has vocal consistency throughout all ranges, and Armiliato’s clear, lightish tenor is sensitive with a wide array of dynamics, though neither seem to relish D’Annunzio’s poetic text. These guilty lovers are in fact real life partners, which makes their lack of chemistry and physical clumsiness with each other surprising. Dessì seems particularly uninvolved. Alberto Mastromarino as the brutish lame Gianciotto is wasted in this thuggish role, with too honeyed a voice and not enough command, and the virulent adolescent Malatestino, surely a gift to a singing actor, is just dull.

It is instructive to turn to the 1984 Met version to see this opera catch fire. Late Renata Scotto cannot command anything like the vocal security of Dessì, yet she eviscerates her as an artist and an actress. The tactile chemistry she shares with Placido Domingo is compelling, as is Cornell MacNeil, terrifying as the lame brother. The production is sensitive to this elusive, haunting opera. Here, deprived of nuance, verbal perception and atmosphere, it is delivered into the hands of its many detractors: a protracted, static bore.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

 JULIAN GRANT 2008/2009

Renée Fleming (Tatiana), Elena Zaremba (Olga), Svetlana Volkova  (Madame Larin), Larisa Shevchenko (Filippyevna), Ramón Vargas (Lenski), Jean-Paul Fouchécourt (Triquet), Dmitri Hvorostovsky (Eugene Onegin), Sergei Alexashkin (Prince Gremin), Richard Bernstein (Zaretsky)

 Metropolitan Opera Orchestra, Chorus and Ballet c. Valery Gergiev p. Robert Carsen d. Michael Levine video director Brian Large

DECCA 074 3248 (2 Discs – 156 minutes)

This 2007 revival of Robert Carsen’s ten-year old production was rapturously received in some quarters, with most excitement generated by Renée Fleming’s debut in the role at the Met. While singing with her customary tonal refulgence, she does not seem to be inside the role as yet. Parts are deeply felt, yet lengths in the letter-scene seem unspecific as regards character and emotion. Maybe it is to do with the language, which she does talk about in an involving little behind-the-scenes interview included as a DVD extra, compered (presumably one of her last-ever appearances) by Beverly Sills. Fleming does convince as a young girl and her reactions are most touching when Onegin lectures her, and her placid hauteur in the last act is successful at hinting she is still the same deeply vulnerable and romantic girl as at the opening. The final scene springs to life: she and Dmitri Hvorostovsky really strike sparks, registering all the pain, regret and desperation that this infinitely touching opera can illumine. Hvorostovsky is a natural for this role, charismatic, disdainful and most detailed in reaction; only his over the top hysteria at the end of the St Petersburg ball scene strikes a false note – presumably a directorial idea – as Fleming’s outburst at the climax of the letter scene parallels it, and seems similarly meretricious in the context of a work that seems to thrive on understatement. Vargas sings with ease and splendour, most ardent at the Larin’s ball, but lacks introspection and real desolation in his aria in the duel scene. Nonetheless, the cast acts as an ensemble, with notable cameos from Sergei Alexashkin as Gremin and Jean-Paul Fouchécourt as Triquet, and it is a luxury to have Larisa Shevchenko (a powerhouse Lady Macbeth of Mtensk) as a deliciously common-sense Filippyevna. Only Elena Zaremba’s Olga is too mature for a skittish little sister; her friskiness is a bit disconcerting. The production is very pared back for the Met, and I can imagine the bare vistas being striking live – particularly the first act with an evocative carpet of autumn leaves, though the duel scene lacks atmosphere and one sense the performers are left stranded in a vast expanse.  Unfortunately, the size of the Met stage precludes the camera taking in the whole picture; panning and scanning results in an absence of coherence and some close-ups are downright perverse. Why does the camera pull away from Hvorostovsky just as Gremin announces that he is married to Tatyana?   We lose his reaction – and there are many other little moments where the viewer is jolted out of the drama. Gergiev steers an unerring course through the score, revealing much, and the chorus are reasonably focused. A safe choice for an Onegin; most enjoyable, but not quite the great experience the press comments would have you believe.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

JULIAN GRANT 2008

Olga Zabotkina (Lidochka), Marina Khotuntseva (Masha), Svetlana Zhivankova (Lyusya), Marina Polbentseva (Vava), Vladimir Vasilyev (Boris), Grigori Bortnikov (Sasha), Vladimir Zemlyanikin (Sergey), Vasili Merkuryev Drebednev)

 Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra c.Nikolai Rabinovich, d. Gerbert Rappaport,

A Lenfilm Production. Decca 1475 (87 mins)

This is the first western release of the 1963 Soviet film version of Shostakovich’s housing estate operetta Moscow Cheryomushki (‘Cherry Town’, as ubiquitous a misnomer as Springfield is in the USA) – a highly sanitized snapshot of Soviet urban regeneration. Fun is poked at the bureaucratic ineptitudes of an oppressive system, but with a bantering, even affectionate tone, light-years from the biting satire that one tends to associate with Shostakovich. The production values are fun, there is much slapstick and everything, even the housing estate under construction, looks squeaky clean and brightly coloured. The music is inevitably heavily cut, and even though Shostakovich later dismissed his own confection, several of the tunes are catchy, if rather blander than one might expect from his populist early film and ballet scores. The mono sound is forward and bright, the singing voices are not so oppressively forward as in the contemporary film version of Katerina Ismailova (also available on Decca). The three young couples are all easy on the eye and ear, and though in some cases the disparity between singing and spoken voices seem implausible, there are no separately credited singers, as if often the case with Soviet opera films of the same vintage; thus I assume we are seeing and hearing real singers, without the aid of Soviet Marni Nixons. Only some dodgy lip-synching, a few technical oversights and close-ups revealing mouthfuls of less than perfect teeth differentiate this from standard 1950’s Hollywood fare featuring the likes of Doris Day or Bing Crosby, though the lunacy of some of the set pieces is more reminiscent of the pre-code musicals of Lubitsch or Mamoulian. This is not so surprising, as the intriguing career path of the Viennese born director Herbert (later russified to Gerbert) Rappaport takes in assistantships to Pabst, then Hollywood, before being tempted to the Soviet Union to make anti Nazi films, where he stayed, becoming a prominent director with the Soviet state-funded production company Lenfilm. A highlight is a preposterously costumed dance number in a half built apartment, a construction site and on a crane that lurches through various historical periods. Inevitably the work disappoints; as recent stage versions have demonstrated by attempted to shore-up the weak ending with rewrites, there is no denying the book implodes badly at the end. Here, the device of a bench, which forces the truth from anyone who sits on it, is as tiresome as one of Gilbert’s lozenges.

Highly recommended all the same: a fascinatingly manipulated counter-glimpse of an epoch we inevitably associate with extreme grimness.

 [first published in OPERA magazine]

© JULIAN GRANT  2009