If
you have never been to the Metropolitan Opera, you may not realize just how
huge the auditorium is. Imagine this: take three standard-sized opera
houses and combine them into one supersized theater. Mix in row after row of
red velvet seats, spreading them far away and high above the stage. Then
cram bodies into those seats, turn down the lights, and sit back to enjoy an
intimate evening of opera with nearly 4000 of your closest friends.
The auditorium is oval-shaped. Sound is reportedly best
in the higher seats but the trade-off is significant: you give up the
pleasure of seeing the drama in favor of hearing it. Folks sitting on the
sides experience various degrees of sight-line (and some sound) obstruction,
so at any given time, depending on how the staging plays out, as many as a
quarter of the people--almost a complete European theater audience--cannot
see the action taking place on the stage, a fact that often seems lost on
the director and set designer. During our second performance, we were
seated in the Grand Tier (second level balcony), on the outer aisle,
reportedly a prime location (with ticket prices to match!). Any scene that took place stage right (or
upstage in Cav) was completely lost . As you might suspect, seat
selection at the Met has become a fine art.
The Met stage, in keeping with the super-sized hall, is
vast, both in length and depth and must present a tempting canvas for
designers. Franco Zeffirelli established the direction, created the sets,
and designed the costumes for both Cav / Pag forty years ago; the
hyper-realism of his effort seems a convincing, if somewhat dated, match to
these ‘verismo’ operas. In Cav, the massive, long flight of steps
leading to the church allowed the Met to pack the stage with extras and
supernumeraries and still leave room for a horse-drawn carriage to cross the
big stage. Pag substituted a ‘natural’ stone outcropping for steps,
again leaving enough room for the horse-cart to arrive with the troupe;
however, for me the overall effect was less satisfactory than Cav,
primarily because Pag often had a sense of being too crowded, too
overwhelming, and too busy; with the full complement of actors and extras,
it seemed almost claustrophobic.
Singing at the Met can be problematic and not just
because of its big barn size. Complex sets like Zeffirelli’s can absorb
notes and the many bodies seem to change acoustic characteristics. There
are the usual sweet spots on the stage but perhaps due to scenery or crowds
Pag
didn't seem to be singer-friendly. That was particularly true in the final
scene, when the actors were shoved onto the ‘stage within a stage.' Not only
was that stage area partially or fully obscured (depending on where you were
sitting) but the staging sometimes turned the singers away from the
real audience to sing to the stage audience. As a result, occasional words and phrases were swallowed or
muffled during the critical denouement.
Intimacy
is sacrificed to the big spread spectacle of the Met. With the greatest of
pleasure we watched and listened from the first row on 30 March as the plots
unfolded. Raw emotions rolled from the stage, inviting us into the world of
Turridu and Santuzza, Canio and Nedda; José Cura, compelling actor that he
is, offered a detailed and nuanced depiction of the good boy gone bad whose
conscience never really deserted him and of the desperate and despairing
clown whose life was a tragedy even before he was pushed to violence. We saw
a thrilling performance with all the details we have come to expect from
Cura and heard every word and phrase clearly is his uniquely wonderful dark
tenor voice, even the hauntingly subdued
‘La commedia e finita.’ On Thursday,
2 April, frustrated by the distance that put an insurmountable barrier
between us and the actors, we lost the sense of emotional attachment and
missed some of the phrases entirely; the ‘La commedia e finita’ that reached
us in the balcony was barely audible and
sped past us too quickly to reach out and hang onto, arriving as an
anticlimactic whisper that died away before it was finished.
Begin rant:
It must be a difficult line to walk for the actors, who are so involved in
crafting character that they seem to forget they are crafting it for US, the
audience, the folks seated out beyond the stage lights. Who cares if facing
the make-believe audience on stage reflects the character's mindset at the
moment: what about US, the paying folks who have been involved in the
drama from the beginning and need the catharsis of the moment more than the
fake audience? No no amount of stage craft finesse supplants the obligation
of the singer to ensure the audience to participate fully in the drama.
Deliberating, purposefully turning away from US belittles and demeans US.
It was an unnecessarily deadening experience for which both director and
cast must bare responsibility. The audience exists; in fact, we
are the reason for your existence. Pplease remember us, set aside
personal preferences, and perform FOR US. End of rant. Thank
you.
Summary of Cav: Hyper-realistic sets and a cast of
hundreds threatened to overwhelm Pietro Mascagni’s slender tale, but José
Cura offered a nicely nuanced, impressively introspective performance in the
role of Turiddu. The highlight of the evening: Cura’s Mamma, quel vino e
generoso.
Setting the stage: Franco Zeffirelli introduced
his Cavalleria rusticana to the Met in 1970; his staging not only
replicates the isolated, downtrodden village but also establishes the
dramatic texture that drives the tragedy. In a place time has passed by,
the old order lives by the old rules – the public humiliation of one man
demands the death of another. Young, energetic, newly worldly-wise from his
military stint, Turiddu certainly must have chaffed as much from the
claustrophobia of his closed community as from the heartbreak of Lola’s
betrayal.
Gentle Musings:
One of the interesting aspects
of Cav is its structure: it is clearly divided into a ‘woman’s’ opera
and a ‘man’s’ opera, balanced on the fulcrum of the critical
confrontation scene.
For the first half of the opera, Santuzza drives the
message, spinning her web of woe against a wall of some of the most
exquisite music in opera. Santuzza is so successful in establishing the
narrative of aggrieved innocent that we ignore worrisome signs in her
behavior and forget that Turridu is never given an opportunity to speak in
self-defense. Drama comes in fits and starts and the opera meanders.
The second half of the opera is given over entirely to
the men. Pace and pulse quicken. The stage becomes a testosterone-filled
arena, with Turiddu flirting with Lola and Alfio posturing jealously with
his switchblade—and yet, in the middle of all this chest-thumping and
manning up comes the most poignant aria in the opera.
The Story: Turiddu has returned to the village
after spending time as a soldier. Before leaving, he and his sweetheart,
Lola, agreed to marry on his return. Not feeling particularly honor-bound
by her oath, Lola opportunistically married the older, less attractive, but
far wealthier Alfio. Whether for revenge or ego-stoking or simply accepting
the reality of his situation, Turiddu turned his attention to the eager and
willing Santuzza and attempts to re-establish his life in the village. Lola
will have none of it: apparently angry that any man is so easily able to
forget her and move on to another, she eventually seduces Turiddu back into
her bed. Thus the opera opens: Santuzza is presumably pregnant, unmarried,
desperate (in the original story, she fears being murdered by her
brothers for dishonoring the family) and cut off from society, Lola is
bedding two men with smug satisfaction, and Turiddu is torn between first
love and sense of duty. In this little morality play set on Easter Sunday,
it seems few are without guilt but only one will be punished.
The curtain opens on a dark set. Offstage, Turiddu is
heard singing The Siciliana. Santuzza, who has been lurking in the shadows, steps
forward at the sound of his voice. She seems uncertain as to whether she
should go to him or flee, compromising by mounting halfway up the church
steps, falling to her knees and praying fervently. Light dawns, the clear
skies turn rosy and villagers begin to fill the square. As Santuzza rises
from her devotions she is met with open disdain from both men and women and
runs off stage—no one, after all, can keep secrets in these small towns. The
growing crowd sings of the beautiful spring day (Gli aranci olezzano sui
verdi margini) and a hymn to the Blessed Virgin.
But Santuzza returns with a mission: on this day of joy
and celebration, she is going to expose the sins of the son to his mother,
Lucia. Santuzza innocently asks for Turiddu, knowing full well where he is.
When Lucia replies he has gone to another town to fetch wine Santuzza can
barely wait to share the news that she knows he was in the village that very
night. Conversation is interrupted by the return of the teamster Alfio, who
entertains the crowd with his song of the joys of teamster's life and
praises for the beauty and virtue of his wife. After Lucia tells him her son
is away buying more of the teamster’s favorite drink, Alfio good-naturedly
replies that he had seen Turiddu just that morning near his cottage.
Santuzza stops Lucia from asking more questions. Alfio leaves.
The choir inside the church is heard singing the
Regina Coeli. Outside, the villagers sing an Easter Hymn, joined by an
impassioned, kneeling Santuzza; an extravagant processional provides the
backdrop. The villagers either enter the church or wander off, leaving
Santuzza and Lucia alone. This is the moment Santuzza has been waiting for:
she exclaims, Voi lo sapete (Now you shall know). As the
priest inside the church leads the congregation through redemption,
forgiveness, and resurrection, Santuzza speaks of betrayal, blame, and
retribution. In near hysteria she tells Lucia her story: she had been
seduced by Turiddu, whom she swears she loves and who has now abandoned her
to return to Lola. A stunned Lucia mutters ‘What a story to hear on Easter
morning.’ Indeed:, it will get worse: Mamma Lucia’s son will die on the day the Virgin’s rose
from the dead.
Having established her victimhood and assigning full
responsibility for her status to Turiddu, Santuzza sends Lucia into the
church to pray for her.
Turiddu arrives. At first he pretends
nonchalance but Santuzza has no time for small talk: she berates him for
pretending to be away when he was actually seeing Lola. Turiddu reacts with
shock: has Santuzza be following him? Has she been spying? Santuzza lies
easily, saying she heard it from Alfio. In growing alarm, Turiddu asks if
Santuzza understands what she is saying, that if she continues she will get
him killed with her wild talk. The discussion is interrupted as Lola sashays
suggestively into the square. She flirts shamelessly with Turiddu, brazenly
asking him if he had seen Alfio. She mocks Santuzza, proclaims her delight
in being without sin and able to enter the church, and bids the embarrassed
Turiddu to remain behind to talk with her rival as she wiggles her hips up
the steps to the inside the of church.
Santuzza redoubles her efforts. She
clings and pleads and begs; Turiddu, still upset with Santuzza for following
him and seeing more evidence of possessiveness than love, tries to get her
to leave. Santuzza refuses, groveling at Turiddu’s knees, wrapping her arms
around his legs, seeking to trap him emotionally and physically. Turiddu
waivers: he is, after all, a good man with a fatal weakness. He knows that
according to the old rules he is responsible for Santuzza but pride and lust
battle guilt. Santuzza has been shadowing him, spying on him, and he
understands too late the emotional neediness of the woman in front of him.
Words and pleas don’t work; he pushes her away and head up the stairs
towards the church. When Santuzza throws a curse at his back, Turiddu
pauses, shoulders slumped, head down, one hand tensing, a man at war with
himself.
Alfio arrives looking for Lola. Making
good on her threat, Santuzza tells the husband that his wife has betrayed
him. The passion of love and forgiveness on this Easter Sunday now turns
into the passion for vengeance and Santuzza and Alfio become allies in
retribution. Santuzza’s role in the opera is now functionally complete:
although she offers a weak note of contrition, “I should never have told
you,” she makes no effort to intercede or avert the tragedy she has set in
motion. To this point she was a near constant presence on stage; she now
disappears until the final moments.
The villagers come out of the church. Turiddu is in high
spirits as he escorts his mother down the steps—Lola is close by and
Santuzza has left. He invites his friends to his mother’s wine shop where he
sings Viva, il vino spumeggiante - "Hail the flowing wine!". He is
extravagant in singling out Lola for toast and attention, which she
reciprocates—the villagers seem not to mind the indiscretion until Alfio
joins them and asserts his dishonor. Turiddu offers him wine; the
older man refuses it. The women leave, taking a stunned Lola with them. In a
brief exchange, Alfio challenges Turiddu to a duel. Following Sicilian
custom, the two men embrace and Turiddu bites Alfio’s ear, drawing blood to
signify a fight to the death. Alfio leaves and Turiddu calls Lucia.
Contrite, he tells his mother that the wine has made him lightheaded
and he is going for walk—but before he does he wants two things: he wants
her blessing, just as she gave him when he went into the army, and he wants
her to be a mother to Santuzza, whom he had promised to marry. He asks her
to pray for him and then for a kiss: Un bacio, mamma! Un
altro bacio! — Addio!
Turiddu rushes out. Lucia wanders aimlessly. Santuzza,
who has remained hidden until now, approaches and throws her arms around
her—she has found the opening back into grace though the price is steep. The
other women, not understanding, wave her off and take the older woman into
her room, leaving Santuzza alone on the stage. Voices are heard in the
distance and a woman runs on stage crying, "They have murdered Turiddu!"
Santuzza staggers momentarily, then faints as the curtain comes down.
In Performance:
Ildikó Komlósi-a fine singing
actress-played Santuzza as a near hysterical, obsessive woman, one for whom
overwhelming love turns instantly to unquenchable hate. We never know for
sure why Turiddu courts her, or why she offers up her virtue so easily to a
man who clearly does not love her, though a modern interpretation would
probably read her pregnancy as a desperate effort to get Turiddu to marry
her in spite of his misgivings. Certainly Santuzza’s behavior would be
enough to warn off most men. Wearing her excommunication almost as a badge
of honor, she shows no dignity in her manipulation of Mamma Lucia, in her
groveling appeal for love from Turiddu or in her revenge-soaked revelation
of the affair to Alfio.
Lola was well-sung by Ginger Costa Jackson but the
young actress came across as too bold for the conservative little community:
she overplayed the sexuality of her character, her hip thrusts and
provocative body language too obvious, her preening arrogance and narcissism
too transparent: if Santuzza stalked her man, Lola toyed with him. That she
traded Turiddu’s love for a life of wealth and position clearly indicates
character’s shallowness; that she allows Turiddu to fete her in public after
the mass clearly indicates the character’s sense of entitlement. When she at
lasts understands the danger, she scurries away without a thought for the
fate of her lover: Lola is, after all, all about Lola.
Alberto Mastromarino sang Alfio well;
Jane Bunnell, heavily made-up, played the thankless role of Mamma Lucia with
dignity.
Finally, there was José Cura in the role of Turiddu.
Caught between a vixen and a virago, he plays Turiddu with remarkable
insight, bringing the role alive with energy and charm. He captures the
innate conflict of the rustic gentleman, a man well schooled in the
hide-bound ways of the village but trapped in the fantasy of first love. His
relationship with Santuzza is seen only in the snippets where Santuzza
attacks, reveals her obsession, then ping-pongs back and forth between
greedy love and scorching anger: he is moved to pity and repelled in equal
measure. The internal conflict is less in the words given to Turiddu than
in the acting--his final walk away from Santuzza lingers in the memory as a
particularly fine moment.
Every slow step is painful; the pause halfway up the church steps in response to Santuzza’s
hurled curse, with slumped shoulders, dropped head, extended fingers,
telegraph emotions that need no words. This is a man filled with angst
and self-loathing, torn between right and wrong, helpless to escape the trap
he finds himself caught in.
The drinking song is the only opportunity to see
Turiddu in ‘natural’ form and it is clear from his interaction with the
crowd that he is well-liked and admired by the villagers; even his broad
flirting with Lola is tolerated good naturedly--in a town where nothing is
kept hidden, discretion brings with it its own cloak of tolerance. Only when
secrets are pushed into the open (as Santuzza does in illuminating Lola’s
and Turridu’s affair) does rustic etiquette require retribution.
There are magical moments in the opera house and those
of us in the theater on this Friday night bore witness to one. On this
night, José Cura captured raw emotions, channeling the agony and fear of the
young man who had drunk too much wine but had not lived enough life. His
Turiddu needed the blessings of his mother, the final kiss of the one woman
who had loved him unselfishly and without reservation; he also needed to
clean his soul of the one stain he had left: he may go to his death still
in love with Lola but he makes sure that Santuzza, the woman who had made
that death inevitable, is provided for. With heart in voice, Cura found the
right measure of the man, the right tenor of the song, the right emotion—the
final ‘Mamma’ ripped at the soul.
Everything after that was anticlimactic, with no room left for sympathy for
Santuzza. Turiddu, the energetic, fun-loving center of this dark drama was
dead, and the Easter Sunday ended with no joy.
Coda: Cura shows excellence in all the roles I
have seen him in but to me he is at his best in those that allow him to display
true vulnerability. His Otello, for example, is a remarkable accomplishment
of towering strength but it succeeds almost in spite of Cura’s
unsympathetic, dark take on the character; his Don Carlo, in contrast, soars
because Cura permits himself to wear the weakness and despair of the prince
as a second skin—we come to care about this fragile human being. His Calaf
charges brilliantly through Turandot like a general leading his troops to certain
victory but in his eagerness to add meat to the character Cura risks
losing the humanity at the heart of the opera; his Stiffelio, in contrast,
shatters in front of us and makes us ache with the pain of betrayal. So it
is with Turiddu, a character in a lightweight opera best known for its
beautiful intermezzo. Cura brings the role alive and touches us with his
character’s lust for life and love and in his fear of defeat and death. His
final aria, his haunting last ‘Mamma’, touched us precisely
because this big macho man strips down to his bare essence and allows us to
share with him our common humanity. It was an unforgettable performance by an artist
who has matured nicely into the role of the young man……
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“Stiffelio”,
a Verdi opera based on Emile Souvestre’s novella and fashioned into an
opera libretto by Francesco Maria Piave, was first performed in
Trieste in 1850 (one year before “Rigoletto”, which was much more
effective). The work was not especially successful, but experienced a
renaissance in the 90’s of the 20th century.
A
convincing success. The opera gala to benefit the Fundación
Banco de Alimentos that united Elina Garança and José Cura on
the stage of the Campoamor won the hearts of the audience that
filled the seats of the theater….
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José
Cura closed the Festival of Peralada yesterday with a memorable concert. The
big voice of the tenor does not leave anyone indifferent, neither does the way
he gives all his energy and vitality in the firm commitment to portraying the
characters he plays. 
Returning
to the International Festival of Santander, where last year he
had starred in one of his magical operas, Saint-Saens’ “Samson”,
José Cura performed -for the first time in Spain- the cycle of
seven songs which he composed based on sonnets by Neruda.
The
Argentine tenor put forth all the emotions of which he is capable in
defending his music; Jose Cura offered a recital of songs from
Argentina, sung intimate and softly, in Santander, Spain 
The
tenor held public rehearsals yesterday morning, sometimes with
caustic criticism of the young singers participating in his class.
A concert of arias will be held tomorrow at the opera in Nancy..jpg)
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l'Opéra
de Wallonie sweated a lot
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I send you some impressions of my Oslo journey
for Fanciulla. To my greatest regret, I couldn't stay
for José's recital--it's so hard to say goodbye—but we had so many
extraordinary and eventful days in that beautiful town that we'll
think of them for a long time.
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