I am planning something chewier on Ballo, maybe for next week. In the meantime, please read the Newsday review by vilaine fille alter ego Marion Lignana Rosenberg of Verdi's Un ballo in maschera at the Metropolitan Opera. (I filched the phrase "music of the spheres" from Gabriele Baldini, whose chapter on Ballo in The Story of Giuseppe Verdi is one of the very best things ever written about Verdi.)
The performance exceeded my expectations. While not a Ballo for the ages, it grew from strength to strength, with the best singing and most striking theatrics coming in Act III. Above all, I sensed that everyone on stage was serious and intent on honoring the composer—a far cry from some of the rot I've had to sit through this season.
Why is Deborah Voigt smiling? First, because cuties Carlos Álvarez and Marcello Giordani are fighting over her—a not disagreeable situation in which to find oneself (apart from the stabbing, of course). Second, because she looks like a million bucks following her weight loss (more on this here and here).* (The photo is old; Voigt's people promise new shots shortly.) And third, because she is singing beautifully.
* [Please, no hate mail. Mme Voigt was a gorgeous woman before her gastric bypass surgery; now she is a gorgeous woman who moves with grace and ease. While GBS is not for everyone, it did save the life of someone surpassingly dear to me. End of discussion on weight and GBS.]
Earlier this season, Voigt's Elisabeth in Tannhäuser sounded tentative; perhaps I caught her on an off day. In Ballo, there were a couple of tight notes early on and a jumbled cadenza to "Morrò, ma prima in grazia," but she was otherwise in glorious form. Indeed, though I have heard Voigt a zillion times as those unhinged dames Ariadne and Sieglinde, never, ever have I heard her abandon herself to the music as she did in Ballo. Excelsior!
This was my first experience of Carlos Álvarez in the theatre, and I was not prepared for the brooding heat he radiates. For the drawing-of-lots scene, the stage directions indicate: "Renato (Anckarström) continually blasts [Amelia] with the lightning of his gaze." Álvarez did no less, and for this he gets a bésame-mucho *smooch* from vilaine fille.
Álvarez's "Eri tu" did not have the elegance that the very greatest have brought to it, and he pretty much barreled his way through "un amplesso che l'essere india," but I found it an exciting bit of singing of its kind. (Plus, be honest: If musicians like de Luca or Plançon were around today, these clowns in New York would run them straight out of town. Not you and I, M, but everyone else. O dolcezze perdute, indeed!)
Marcello Giordani: Bella voce, bel ragazzo, and I wish that his rebuilt technique allowed for more pliant phrasing and caressing attacks. That said, I can't think of anyone else I'd rather hear in this role right now. (Vargas? Too soon. Villazón? In fifteen years. Licitra? Been there, done that.)
I wanted to like the Met Orchestra under James Conlon more than I did. To hear Ballo played with dazzling grace and fire, check out the recordings led by Karajan and Muti.
Ballo will not be broadcast; performances run through 3 May, with vilaine fille coqueluche Larissa Diadkova singing Ulrica later in the run and the incomparable Aprile Millo taking over for Voigt on closing night.
What a great season it has been for Puccini's La fanciulla del West in New York. Last fall brought 
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