Yesterday I had the great and rare joy of revisiting the Met's Bohème, which I had already reviewed for Newsday.
I have a strange relationship with La bohème. I was so thunderstruck by Stratas and Carreras in the original 1982 run of the Met producton that I've largely avoided the opera since then. I loathe (no hyperbole) the slickness and Mahlerian bloat of Karajan's revered set, and the unrelenting prettiness of Beecham's recording doesn't suit me, either. My favorite recorded Bohèmes? Hands down, the two earliest sets (1917 and 1928), both conducted by Carlo Sabajno. They're scrappily played and sung, but the singers really sound like a bunch of smelly, hungry, disreputable lowlifes, so full of vitality and humor that when death arrives, it's all the more devastating. And, yes, I also went through the obligatory Puccini-hating phase, but with the years, I increasingly have come to admire Puccini's discipline and economy.
Anyway, back to the Met. Anna Netrebko as Musetta: funny, adorable, drop-dead gorgeous. Her singing: eh. I found her voice diminished in volume; most of Act II was a hair flat; and the darling girl just slid through all those pesky grace notes that Puccini wrote but, well, couldn't have intended for her, right? That's one reason why I find Netrebko's "Sempre libera" CD to be such a dog: Bellini (Bellini?) when she can't be bothered to sing a clean run? Quoth Callas at Juilliard:
Could you imagine a violinist or pianist, even a beginner in this conservatory, refusing or unable to perform those written ornaments? He would be thrown out, considered incompetent. With singers, it is no different—whatever they might think.
(See also my Siren Songs from USItalia.)
Frank Lopardo may have a "Dudley-Do-Right timbre" (as a musician friend says), but I have the deepest respect for him. While Marcelo Álvarez as Rodolfo made prettier sounds, Lopardo is much the finer musician and artist. He took the climax of "Che gelida manina" as if he were Carlo Bergonzi: a single, graceful arc, with the end of the phrase lovingly tapered and no less buoyant than the high C (? possibly transposed down). He addressed the aria to Ruth Ann Swenson's Mimì and not to the gallery (fancy that), and spun such a long, dreamy mezza voce on "vi piaccia dir" that people around me gasped with admiration. Other lovely things, just from Act I: the knowing, grateful way he acknowledged Mimì when she reached out with "quelle cose che han nome… poesia!"; his gentle but oh-so-sexy "E al ritorno?" (Primitive hygiene and all, I would have judged his Rodolfo spongeworthy on the spot.)
Ruth Ann Swenson: More the character than at the prima. Vastly more free and conversational in Act I, probably because Lopardo offers so much more to work with; still tending to mewl her way through certain high phrases. Often out of sync with conductor Daniel Oren, who apparently has never heard of rubato. (Dear Met: Next time around, give us Bertrand de Billy, please.) Her death scene was a miracle of half-tints.
As for Peter Mattei, I already raved about him in my Newsday review. Wow. Someone wrote of Callas's Tosca: "Just to watch Miss Callas's hands at work almost recreated the opera." Same thing with Mattei's Marcello: what distress, perplexity, and even empathy his hands conveyed as he listened to Mimì and Rodolfo's complaints in Act III. I tried but could not find a single autopilot moment in Mattei's portrayal. The way he is hunched over and *shivering* as the curtain rises; his shaken fumbling with Mimì's medicine as she lies dying; the cheeky allure (and jaw-dropping vocal finesse) of his banter with Benoît, which lesser artists treat as throwaway lines. (Back to Callas: "Every note has a reason, every phrase has a reason, stage-wise and expression-wise." Yes.)
Too bad the Met seems to have Mattei pegged as a Mozart singer, because I suspect that no one today could touch him as Rodrigue, Onegin, Valentin, Wolfram, Ernesto (Pirata), Enrico (Lucia)… and what a Sharpless he would make, if the company ever decided to do right by Butterfly! (Similar story with the sublime Russell Braun, who has nothing coming up but Silvio in Pagliacci and a reprise of Figaro in Barbiere. Those are good roles, unquestionably requiring top-notch casting, but Braun deserves bigger and better.)
Perhaps New Yorkers can hope for a Mattei Liederabend in the near future, with lots of Sibelius and Robert Schumann and some Tosti, too. (This fellow has a big, warm heart and a real way with Italian music.)
In conclusion, feast your eyes on this shot of Mattei and pal:
Honestly, who can resist a guy who dresses up in fuchsia paillettes? (Not sure on what occasion the photo was taken, because the page from which I pilfered it is in Etruscan.)
24 November update: Add to wish list for either Mattei or Braun Jaufré Rudel in Kaija Saariaho's L'Amour de loin. (When oh when will the disgraziati here in New York get around to producing this opera?) And for Mattei… drumroll… di Luna in Trovatore. (Oh, wait, that would assume that people actually know what Trovatore should sound like. Probably asking too much.)
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