Opera Chic

The Final Word on Graham Vick's La Clemenza di Tito @ Teatro Regio di Torino

As initially reported here (and lots of pictures here), OC took in Graham Vick's staging of La Clemenza di Tito at Teatro Regio di Torino while you were all busy stocking-up for your Memorial Day BBQs @ Costco. Since it was a Sunday matinée, and a gray rainy day to boot, OC went extremely casual, in black J Brand Black Label jeans, black silk Viktor & Rolf off-the-shoulder blouse, Costume National black boots, black Aspesi hooded windbreaker, and the Prada shopper in ruched, black leather. And a fabulous Paul Smith umbrella in pastel, Pucci-esque swirls.

The theater was filled with like 95% senior citizens for the Sunday 3PM show, which was fine by OC. Ten minutes before the performance began, as people were taking their seats and milling about, without any cues of lighting or curtains rising, two white-gloved butlers arrived stage front and unrolled a sliver of area rug from under an art deco chair. Brilliant.

Brilliant because we think, ok, they are making a DVD out of this, but this moment can in no way be captured by the HD cameras that hadn't yet started rolling. And this is what Graham Vick is all about. The goal is that old-school, lofty ambition of luring people out of their comfort zones for live theater. In a day and age where DVDs are sealed and inked with every major recording company traversing the entire spectrum of opera theaters, it's all too easy to go months (years?) without seeing a live show and just netflixing & p2ping & Siriusing everything (while keeping a blawg or a bulletin board about it all). Why bother with the uncomfortable seats and the smelly crowds and the rude ushers and the overpriced parking when we can just pop in a DVD of your favorite opera in the comfort of our own home? We’ve grown so borooooed and cynical of stamped-out, recycled productions, all given the Broadway in&out, drive-thru seal, that going to the theater seems a scam rite?. Well, our main man Graham Vick is out to smash that, making each performance unique and exclusive, infusing live opera with the thrill of witnessing fresh blood and stuff, flaws and all. We were ready.



A black gauze curtain obscured the set stage, which was peeled back by a butler mid-overture. Before it was all revealed, only outlines of the set could be seen: a salon in a large hall with art deco tables and chairs, all in gorgeous blond wood. As the curtain was peeled away, one of the strong visual elements of the set was slowly revealed...French double doors leading to the darkness, topped by a long, horizontal row of windows, realized by set designer Jon Morrell.

During the first scene of Act I, the windows to the outside world remained inert and barely noticeable, abstract and blended into the wall as a strong design element. As the scene progressed, the approaching dawn filled and defined the windows and doors, making apparent the passage of time and sentiments. Vick's idea of using the same, static set throughout Acts I & II worked (as it did for Carsen's Teatro Regio di Torino Salome which we saw here), and it was no issue to suspend backgrounds interchanged for the Capitol, the imperial palace, the public hall, or the arena. 

This we love about Vick. He handles his big ideas with such smatterings of care and tempi. He's in no hurry to broadcast his genius. He proceeds at his own pace and slowly & elegantly uncovers his gigantic, understated ideas at his leisure. He's not going to spoon-feed you anything. Pay attention or you'll miss it all!

The slight detraction of the night was Carmela Remigio's Vitellia. She had noticeable problems with her r's and her s's...rolling those r's heartily, and strangely slurring (lisping, acthually) over her s’s. Her breath control was sloppy, but we're hoping that it was because it was the final showing of Vick’s la Clemenza and maybe she was tired. We cannot argue that her tone was anything aside from lovely, with a pleasant color...but those rough edges that kept surfacing were just too distracting. Her Act II showstopper Rondò, "Non più di fiori" was technically solid, careful, and her color and tone were pleasant…but very rough edges appeared when she pushed the high notes. The higher she went, the wilder her voice grew. It was almost like a neurotic voice. For "Non più di fiori", however, the basset horn solo was outstanding, as were the remainder of the woodwinds.

Any detractions from the event were forgiven by Monica Bacelli's insanely excellent Sesto. Dressed in black pants, with a white dress shirt and shiny black shoes, well, dang. Physically perfect in the role, her body language dictated believably to be riddled with issues. She used excellent pronunciation, and a flawless technique. Her Act I aria, "Parto, ma tu ben mio" was the most stunning. Even conductor Roberto Abbado put down his baton and clapped his hands happily. "Brava" rained down from the 90+-year-old-crowd as enthusiastically as if the audience was filled with 20-somethings. She deserved it all. Gently caressed, lovingly washed, and above all, convincing in the resolve. The final scene's Recitativo accompagnato "Oh Dei, che smania è questa" was another stellar moment mastered by Bacelli, as well as Act II, Scene IX's Rondò "Deh, per questo istante solo" which was another standout, and was met with loads of applause.

Other players, Annio's Daniela Pini and Servilia's Rachel Harnisch were bright lights, and their Act I, Scene V's duet "An, perdona al primo affetto" was a standout.


(above: this is an awesome little chill-out room they have in the theater's lobby. So 70s.)

Abbado's overture OC found a bit too stylized, cursive, and polite, but this was nonetheless heeded by the tiny orchestra and period instruments. The rest of the conducting was a light, nervous, carefully layered style, which worked and never drowned out or fought with the singers (except during a few of Act II's arpeggi tackled by a lagging Filianoti). Abaddo's conducting and control got better and better as the afternoon progressed.

Filianoti's appearance was perfect for the greasy and slick Tito. His voice, however, was definitely worrisome, and frankly has been for a bit now. Technically, he hit all his notes, and his understanding of the role was spot-on. But when he did reach those higher registers and punched forward the precise tone, his remaining voice was audibly exhausted. Every time he reached up, he fell back down to recovery. His voice is now like a sweetly-loved teddy bear, all the fur rubbed off from too many bedtime kisses and scary dreams. It's worn through in spots.

Filianoti is 33.

He pushed hard his notes, all throat, and the sound became the kind of strained voice you'd think would make him bright red in the face. Act II, Scene XI, Tito's aria, "Se all'impero, amici Dei" was pretty scary on the arpeggio, and Abbado slowed down the orchestra. But Filianoti, hit each and every note, and made it strikingly obvious.

Vick's depiction of the burning capitol was truly frightening, making "Si teme che l'incendio" all the wiser. The totally real, flaming (gas) fire Vick ignited was sandwiched between the two rows of French doors, burning high and bright, a true roar of flames for like 5 minutes. And props to lighting director Giuseppe Di Iorio, who filled this scene with overhead light provided only by the sets, as opposed to very theatrical spots.

Act II began with powerful imagery, all the poor townsfolk who bore framed images of the demigod Filianoti, as the dictator bathed in the attention and flattery. The children rushed to his sides in warm embraces, hailing him the new leader and vowing unconditional love and support, and the fascist colors only grew from there. Fast forward to the final scene, where the political prisoners were brought into the scene blindfolded, and sporadically beaten by Tito's guards dressed in the typical Mussolini Blackshirt garb. In front of OC, there were four senior citizens who were squirming and rolling in their seats like itchy bear cubs, and we loved that Vick made them squirm -- whose side were you on back then, gramps?

Thought so.

Vick is a genius because he's basically offending Italy’s oldest living generation, who aren't just old in years, but old in mentality. So Vick rules because it's not like they're going to start a Facebook group denouncing Vick or make an online petition or anything. This isn’t your Grandma in Boca Raton uploading her vacation pictures to Flickr or updating her Twitter page. They’re just going to sit at their local bar and b*tch about it. I mean, who's listening...the walls? Yeah, more power to you.


(above: panorama from the top level of the Teatro Regio di Torino. Click for bigger)

Black & Blue: Bartók & Dallapiccola's Gloom & Doom @ La Scala

Although OC would have much rather been partying all nite loooong with her fellow interisti, she's glad she made it to la Scala this evening for opening night of the Dallapiccola & Béla Bartók double-header.

It's always a delight -- che soave zeffiretto -- when eeel maystrau Harding shows up in Milan, our gentle little Zephyr, to blow his gentle breezes around the stuffy theater.

A cold, scary, and lugubrious Luigi Dallapiccola's Il Prigioniero was stuffed full of brassy and jarring metallic tones. Raw and exposed nerves were threaded through the score -- although a lighter, crystalline approach could have worked equally as well, as we'll explain tomorrow in the full review. Dark but rotating sets peppered director Ferdinand Wögerbauer's vision of the chilling tale, and Vito Priante's diapered performance was balls-out. It was sw8, from the chorus that paraded past the action to il grande inquisitore, tenor Kim Begley, a nightmarish terror looming over the others on stilts.

Infractions were committed by the orchestra, that really didn't wear Dallapiccola (btw in Italian Dallapiccola means literally "By the little one", ymmv) comfortably -- as it is sometimes the case here, too many professori d'orchestra are long on arrogance, short on the ability to deliver the goods -- everything was regained fully for Béla Bartók's Il castello del duca Barbablù...a textured and tight reading with a Strauss-inspired coating, delicate and subtle without being emasculated. Elena's Zhidkova's Judit was excellent both in acting and technique.

An entertaining detraction from the evening was a cranky loggionisti who shouted a message after the first pause into the absolute silence of the darkened theater, waiting for Maestro Harding to make his reappearance.

After an interminable pause that lasted like an hour, a lone voice rang out from Galleria 2, "L'intervallo e' stato troppo lungo". ("The intermission was too long!") ha ha omg. i would have done it myself, but my larynx is too short to do this (2 inch cubic). A moment of disbelief, and the theater broke-out in spontaneous applause of support. omg anarchy @ the theater! mutiny!

the evening ended with a few rounds of curtain calls, and Harding sustaining a nice round of cheers from the satisfied audience. More tomorrow. If u can stand it!

Tonight We're Gonna Party Like It's 1984: Lorin Maazel's Opera @ Scala -- The Teaser Review

OC just took in the Milan premiere of Lorin Maazel’s 3 & 1/2 hour opera, 1984, at la Scala so you don’t have to. Actually, if you happened to have not been there, there are still p l e n t y of tickets left for the next six performances…discarded by a desperately provincial Milan audience with a proven track record of not being keen on contemporary opera (not to mention, it's in English omg teh horror). There are like thousands of operas out there, but I’m sure as hell not going to see a couple hundred because they happen to be written in the wrong language.

Earlier tonight, Maestro Maazel shot magic spider webs from his enchanted +8 orchestra-slaying baton and cold killed it. Every nuance of the orchestra was inextricably tied to the tip of his magic wand. It was almost as interesting watching the flick of his baton and sweep of his hands as watching the opera. A L M O S T. Maazel should get down from the podium right now and kiss the golden rose petals that director Robert Lepage walks on, the gold leaf toilet paper that he wipes himself with, and the gold-thread monogrammed towels that he dries his car with. The direction was slammin off the hook. The super-triplet trifecta of Carl Fillion’s scenery, Yasmina Giguere’s costumes, and Michel Beaulieu’s lights vividly pushed along Maazel’s patchwork (but thrilling) composition, bathing the production in perfect idiosyncrasy, chiaroscuro, motivation, and milieu.

The cast was, well, not the same one from the 2005 Royal Opera House, which was notably rounded-out by a bare-chested Simon Keenlyside. We had instead Julian Tovey as star Big Brother devotee Winston Smith, who gave everything he had and poured himself into the demanding role, but failed to draw much visceral empathy from yours truly. And yay for La Scala’s editors/checkers (there must be someone with that job description in the famously bloated, constantly cash-starved Scala personnel, 4 times larger than the Met's) for screwing-up the spelling of his name on their in-house playbill as “Julian Tovaj”. omg bootleg as heyll that’s what.

Full review + much moar tomorrow, included all the yummy things Lorin Maazel said to the Italian press in the last week to prepare the audience for his Orwellian thunder. While you're waiting for OC's recap, Rai3 transmitted it live, so you can go look for it on the intertubes if you're so inclined. Cause OC was there and you weren't.

Get ur Fill of La Fille du Régiment @ The Metropolitan Opera: The Full Opera Chic Review

(above: impromptu promo space outside of the Metropolitan Opera for La Fille du Régiment.)

We were privy to ours in Milan one year & two months ago, Vienna had theirs one year ago, and now it's New York's chance to hear the applause-inducing man-chine that is Juan Diego Flórez perform his vocal-chord-defying bravado by encoring, "Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête!" (o hai utubes has the clip from the same production) with the "Pour mon âme" cabaletta. For this Donizetti La Fille du Régiment, Flórez belted eighteen high C’s in the span of mere minutes, and effortlessly attacked, strong-armed, devoured and digested those pesky notes.

Flórez. The man should change his name to singular form like Madonna or Elvis, Beyonce or Liberace. He's the perennial favorite, the undefeated champion of high C's. o lawdy i'm still shaking like a leaf. ok, playin. When he encored "Ah! mes amis" at the end of Act I, OC was all like 'o hai this again?' I mean, it's like kinda how Milan is at any given time 6-hours ahead of NYC, so I guess all those extra hours added up, and you NYers got your high C "Pour mon âme" encore in some weird time warp fourteen months later. :-P~~

For the Metropolitan Opera encore, Flórez hit his high C’s effortlessly and confidently, without breaking a sweat, much less staccato from the dress rehearsal, but with a definitive crystalline punch. It was delivered with a lovely bel canto that warmed and froze the clearly smitten Metropolitan audience simultaneously. After three minutes of applause he stood perfectly still with a bowed head, breaking only once to acknowledge the audience. After his amazing encore, the packed house gave him a standing ovation.

The other Flórez crowd-pleaser was his Act II, “Pour me rapprocher de Marie,” an extraordinarily paced aria that he sung sumptuously, with perfect pitch and a delicate, mature understanding, which provided a lovely contrast from his more aggressive and high-energy "Ah! mes amis". Another Flórez accomplishment of the night is his apparent weight gain, which must account for a delicious wedding cake. He looks amazing, a far cry from a sickly, gaunt, thin tenor we flinched at when we saw just three months ago at la Scala in recital.

Onto the performance: fo’reals, if u want a perfect synopsis of the operatic arc, go here to OC’s La Fille dress rehearsal review from Friday, April 18, 2008.

Not terribly much had changed with the staging, although obvs, cast & crew gave like 125.9%. N e wais...Marco, marco, Marco: tonight's conducting by Maestro Armiliato, an unsung conductor with a passion for strong, driven performances and famous among orchestras for his memory (glancing @ scores is 4 lam3rZ) was elegant, once again...animated, sprite, infectiously joyful, but a few instances were just too muscled and large for la Dessay and the ensemble.

OC noticed that some of the visual gags had been completely cut from Laurent Pelly’s direction, and the comic relief had been overall toned down. This fared well for everyone, audience included, as when the giggling got out of hand, harsh shushing erupted from quite a few patrons. Tiny things were cut, which nevertheless went a long way to create a more seamless drama -- as opposed to the dress rehearsal with the constant vie @ visual gags that gave a disjointed, unhinged, and irritated feel to many of the dramatic moments.

The chorus still needs to spend some extra time doing crunches or drills or whatever will not make them almost drop the entire "Allons, plus d'alarmes!" on the stage floor, a moment at the beginning of Act I when OC truly thought that things were going to quickly fall apart, messy, slimy pits all over the floor. Harrowing.

What killed was the not so analogous props during Act I. Here we have Marie doing her awesomely choreographed ironing routine, "Au bruit de la guerre", and in the background are all the laundry washing tools from WWI…like the wooden slat washboard and big iron tubs...yet la Dessay is hemming away at the ironing board with a white plastic iron, something you'd pick up at Sears. It was lost on me. Is it a statement on feminism? Cuz I ain't no Gloria Steinem.

Although on paper & paychex it was JDF's night, the evening belonged to la Dessay. Flawless dialogue crackled through Act I, along with a gorgeous coloratura that she controlled even as she was carried offstage horizontally or flopped over piles of laundry. She is one of the most musically spirited singers on stage, with excellent control, flawless diction, and face it...she's just frikking kewl. She slays you with a huge voice that betrays her lithe body, unleashed at the most unexpected moments, peeling and flaying the gold leaf off the highest rows in the Family Circle. (While we're at it: Gelb, my man, during your reign, plz rename "Family Circle" to something a little edgier. I mean, what the hell? Family Circus, my Disney a$$. Rename it after one of Dante's Circles of Hell. Anything. Something.)

Dessay gorgeously belted her tireless voice throughout the gigantic armory that they call The Metropolitan Opera house, a feat which is quite a challenge stacked against the smaller, more intimate opera houses in Europe. "Chacum le sait, chacun le dit" started with confident, secure top notes, and ended without straining, filled to the end with gorgeous coloratura, soaring and rich, all the while Dessay acted-off her felty 21st Regiment pants.

Act II's "C'en est donc fait" received one of the highest regards of the evening from the audience, who threw down a chilling tsunami of brava at la Dessay. She was inundated with so much applause, that she sprung forth from the 21st Regiment, motioned for the audience to stop the applause with a decisive cut of her arms, and then leapt back comically and egregiously to her blocked-out position.

This performance, the Marquise of Berkenfield and the Duchess of Krakenthorp had toned-down the interjections of Americanisms, and Krakenthorp seemed a bit detached, less fierce, but both characters still brought the el oh els.

During curtain call, Dessay came out holding Maestro Armiliato's baton, brandishing it at the audience as she took her bows. Between acts, there were too many B-C-D celebrity sightings to relay, but before the opera began, Florez's new father-in-law was front & center on the grand staircase with a posse of fellow blonds, La Trappa looked vary dazzling in Swarovski, and many of the famous faces from the Honorary Committee were in attendance glaming-up the place (check out the names below, click 4 bigger). It was a rilly rilly random mix...Gossip Girl Leighton Meester? hellys naw. Rufus...again with his mother? Yawnz0r. Naomi Campbell in a black jacket and black pants; Stefano Pilati in a weird sparkly YSL cardigan and bedroom slippers; Chuck Close; Olatz Schanbel, designer of US$ 400 plush bathrobes and nice pj's, always a woman of breathtaking beauty, living evidence of her big fat hairy genius of a pajama-wearing husband's impeccable taste, in stunning red; Emmy Rossum in sky-high heels and a sweet black puffy dress; and UFO-like sightings of Anna Wintour, but OC didn't spy her; Susan Graham munching at the first intermission; & most disheartening of the night? JDF colleague Ramón Vargas booking out of the front doors 15 minutes before show time and rushing-off into the approaching dusk. We <3 u Vargas…stay 4 teh show!

We at Team OC are happy that New York City can finally bask in the glow of that same magic we had @ la Scala 14 months ago, when Juan Diego Flórez encored "Ah! mes amis, quel jour de fête!" We're like the first ones who could sit through Flórez singing a triple-header of Wagner's Ring Cycle without any intermissions, but to be quite honest, tonight's encore felt like sloppy seconds.

(above: Gossip Girl Leighton Meester @ the MET for la Fille)

(above: Rufus Wainwright @ the MET for La Fille with his mam)

(Stefano Pilati and La Naomi)

(La Editrix)

Olé for Olatz!

It's Kathleen. Ms. Battle if You're Nasty: Battle's Bash @ Carnegie Hall

(above: o battle how we've miss'd u soooo!)

It's been 14 years since she was fired from the Metropolitan Opera by then General Manager Joseph Volpe, and 6 years since she's sung at Carnegie Hall, so New York was more than ready for Kathleen Battle's Sunday afternoon come-back recital at Isaac Stern Auditorium on 57th & 7th. After 2 & 1/2 hours of Kathleen Battle charming the audience with her still-sweet lyric soprano, half-a-dozen standing ovations, and three generous encores, NYC unanimously was like, "This is luv". OC was proud to be among the fans, casual in black suede Gucci wedge boots, rag & bone str8 peg-leg denim, a black cashmere Brioni cape, and black Chloe Paddington bag.

Battle, true to legendary status, scripted herself a true diva's entrance. Instead of the predictable singer's entrance from backstage, the first performer on stage was instead lutenist Daniel Swenberg, who came out and began playing his theorbo, a type of olde-skooly lute. Just as the audience was hypnotically lulled into the soothing, understated purity of the theorbo, the stage door flew open, and Kathleen Battle came gliding out. As the audience bloomed with applause (ending in a standing ovation before the diva even birthed a single note), Battle graciously acknowledged her fans. Hair pulled neatly into a bun, an absence of bling (aside from gold sandals and earrings), Battle was in a two-layer, off-the-shoulder dress (an under-sheath of black silk topped with two gauzy layers of magenta and red, cleaved in the middle and trailing on the floor) which provided mild consternation for the diva through the performance, fussing playfully with the gauze train that refused to cooperate whichever way she moved.

(above: Carnegie Hall in New York City)

The first three selections were by Henry Purcell, accompanied by the theorbo. As Battle launched into her first work, her voice wrapped around the hall as comfortable as a vintage Pringle cashmere blanket, a Comme des Garçons silky t-shirt, a velvety soft pair of 7 For All Mankinds, or a pair of ballet-slipper-soft Louboutins. Such a familiar voice that belies the diva's upcoming 60th birthday. Still sweet as honey, with tinge of woody richness that foreshadows her years to come. Battle's voice is pretty much ageless, and sweet bubbles still froth at the surface of her tone, that same youthful tone that she mastered two decades ago.

Time for the Franz Schubert selections, and Battle was joined by pianist Ted Taylor. Battle was comfortable on stage and worked the audience well (who were all too eager to reciprocate), easily mastering a dramatic scale from sassy to tender, introspective to poignant. Nacht und Traume was short and sweet, while Versunken was troubling, one of the only struggles from the program. Between selections, Battle would mentally prepare herself, turning her back on the audience and channeling herself as the audience waited in complete silence at her shoulders.

(above: Carnegie Hall, NYC)

The standout from her Felix Mendelssohn set was Fruhlingslied, which she attacked immediately, a voice tireless and confident. She carried perfectly in the hall, cold killin' it. At the end of Fruhlingslied, pianist Taylor left the stage to retrieve a handkerchief for Battle to wipe away renegade sweat, while she softly apologized to the audience.

After the intermission, Battle slayed Franz Liszt's Die Lorelei, a potent, memorable standout of the recital, showing off a voice that was impervious to breakage, cobwebs, or cowbells, as if it had been shelved and air sealed the past dozen years.

Gabriel Fauré's French selections were overall sweet and lovely, Battle singing in a clear voice. For the last Fauré, Notre Amour, she mastered a delicious vibrato. It wasn't until Montsalvatge's "Ninghe, Ninghe" (Cinco Canciones Negras) that the sweetness worked against her. OC thinks such a lush, vivid song would have benefited better from a sultry wash, but Battle turned it towards a lullaby-ish predictability, sweet, but too timid. Joaquin Turina's Tu Pupilla es Azul was a stark contrast to the prior work, and Battle unleashed her full powah, sloughing the paint from the hall, to which the audience reciprocated with applause peppered with whistles.

But that was just a warm-up for her stellar, off tha hook (and a complete surprise, excluded from the written program), "Were You There When They Crucified My Lord?” Tremble, tremble indeed. Battle transformed herself into mechabattle Battle, and the gloves came off. The pianist excused himself, and Battle began the hymn alone, paced and solemn, voice easily filling the 3K capacity auditorium like a mousie in a matchbox. omg, who is this woman? bangin. the whole hall. spotless. o the powah!

(above: Battle during curtain call)

She returned to the program with composer Robert Sadin's "Good News", first taking time to thank the audience. She was gracious and grateful for the audience's presence and support, and said that the outpouring & excitement was heartwarming. Then she said that she's going to do a recital again next year, so if you missed out on the magic, you can scramble for tickets next year. Get on line behind OC, plebs. :-p~~~

Before the next selection (coincidentally a world premiere, never heard before a live audience), Robert Sadin's "Hold On", she spoke again, extolling the composer. She explained that he was a loyal friend and vocal coach from the beginning of her career (having met him in Cincinnati, he was the mentor for her first opera performance in Barbiere). The work was commissioned for Battle by Sadin, and was in the style of an African-American spiritual. At the end of the song (that spoke of holding one’s hand fast to the plow), Battle was floored, having poured her family legacy into the spiritual (Battle's grandfather was an emancipated slave, a man-made trauma that holds much resonance with the singer).

She was gracious to give three encores to the adoring audience, singing "O mio babbino caro" from Gianni Schicchi. Flawless, and it was the perfect antidote to erase the bitterness of OC's last live Lauretta (Nino Machaidze’s colic version at la Scala a month ago).

The second bis was "His Eye is on the Sparrow", another gospel hymn about Jesus stuff, from 1905 by composer Charles H. Gabriel, which was kinda yawnz0rs. Her last encore (although for technical reasons, it had to be the last…as her voice abruptly failed at the end) was another spiritual, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot".

Regardless of the fact that a forced note lodged in her throat -- which came out as a cough mid-measure -- Battle sang this one again without any accompaniment from pianist Taylor. She paced the stage dramatically as she laid down the tracks. At the end of the work, the diva was showered with much deserved, deafening cheers, the audience hoping to make up for the years of her censored and silenced absence from the NYC stages.

It was a comeback perfectly practiced and planned, paced and understated. We were all too happy to welcome her back, and hopefully this time, she won't stay away so long.

Bruno Casoni Is Teh Mang: Rossini's Stabat Mater Explores Other Worlds

La Scala, so often the reign of the overrated and the overhyped and the overpaid, nevertheless manages to mantain a few standards of excellence: one of these areas where, really, you can't touch them, is the Chorus of the Teatro alla Scala. Then let us praise the man who brings the chorus to such superhuman standards of excellence: Maestro Del Coro Bruno Casoni, whose work is always spotless, always world class.   

Riccardo Chailly and Casoni’s 100-person strong chorus played last nite at Scala for a short & sweet choralicious concert.

First up was Igor Stravinsky/Stravinskij’s Symphony of Psalms, which was too warm, too creamy, and too graceful -- it needed more edge, more hard edges, more threat. The tempi were pristine, but without that edge, it flowed together too elegantly for the at times terrifying Psalms. The audience reciprocated with a lukewarm applause.

Gioachino Rossini’s Stabat Mater was next, but we were already familiar with Chailly's Stabat Mater from his 2003 recording with the Concertgebouw Orchestra (and la Frittoli) Chailly conducted sumptuous and layered, a perfect Rossinian sound that morphed into something more ethereal at times. Not as otherworldly as the best Rossini Stabat Mater that we will ever hear (Carlo Maria Giulini, the Proms, 1981) because Chailly became a little too muscled at the end, but only via the male chorus, the tenors during Amen, in sempiterna had an ugly, rough edge for the final series of climaxes.

Soprano Svetla Vassileva she was in good form, wearing a cream layered dress and crystal encrusted high sandals. Mezzo-soprano  Sonia Ganassi was the bomb, vocally, in a glittery black dress. Dmitry Korchak’s light tenor was sweet and lovely, but he couldn't quite attack those high notes so well. Bass Mirco Palazzi was good, but had a reedy quality to his voice that didn’t translate well enough against the passion of Chailly’s vision.

At the end of the night, the audience (which was a full turnout, but not packed by any means) went crazy with applause for over five minutes. Maestro del Coro Bruno Casoni got the hugest applause of the night, markedly bigger than the one for Chailly.

Il Trittico @ La Scala: Mehhhhhh

‘*^*OC*^*` is barely conscious after the four hour marathon of Puccini’s masterpiece Il Trittico earlier this evening at Teatro alla Scala, and will try to share more impressions of the 3-in-1 opera tomorrow. For now, the angry rabbits on the bottom of her Marni heels are screaming to be put back in their white shoe baggies, so this’ll be quick:

Riccardo Chailly coaxed the most gorgeous, intelligent, satiny flavor from the Orchestra della Scala, a sound so inspiring and delicate, perfectly controlled and shaped, he complimented every voice that rang across the stage, but managed to hold the spotlight. Il Tabarro, Suor Angelica, and Gianni Schicchi were attacked differently, each one with a marked flare. Chailly was the indisputable champion of the evening, leaving the singers to trail behind. Of the most competent singing, we had, well, slim pickings. Gianni Schicchi’s Rinuccio was sung by lithe yet powerful Vittorio Grigolo, one of the brightest lights of the entire evening with a forceful, gorgeous voice. Close behind was Leo Nucci in the title role of the third Il Trittico opera, although it’s more his charisma than his twilight, tepid tone. Barbara Frittoli as Suor Angelica sang laudably, but her Puccini is not terribly resonant, and constituted as one of the weakest performances I’ve seen her in. Of course, you can't speak about Il Trittico without mentioning Lauretta's O mio babbino caro, but as sung by an acidic Nino Machaidze, let's not.

Luca Ronconi’s offensive and frankly lazily executed sets detracted greatly from Chailly’s creaminess, the orchestra’s flawless gift-wrapping, and the entire ensemble’s singing efforts. The most jarring and incongruous was Suor Angelica’s set, which consisted of stark bluish walls and a gigantic plastic form of Madonna (not the Dior-wearing, Brit-speaking, Lourdes-spawning singer) prostrate on the ground, which the sisters of the order traversed across and walked through tunnels snaked above and through her. wtf? Gulliver’s Travels. Alice in Wonderland. Who dropped mushrooms before laying down the sketches??  We get the symbolism ok ok but the execution came off like a Madonna slip-n-slide water theme park. As Frittoli lamented over her dead son, she was sprawled across the comically immense saint, and all sympathy for her trauma was nullified in light of such an odd, drug-induced visualization. The set for Gianni Schicchi was equally armature, and was simply a sunken bedroom with every square inch of surfaced draped in maroon red fabric with gold accents. The harsh, unyielding, and static lighting didn’t help much either.

At the end of the night, my outfit was more memorable than the production, although Chailly's genius will haunt my dreams. v(º_o)v

Robert Carsen's Kewlest Salome Locks it Down in Torino

(above: Salome's Dance of the Seven Veils @ Torino's Teatro Regio. Photo: Ramella and Giannese/Piva) 

ok, there are 2 versions of Salome: the kewl one (Carsen) adn the boring one (every1 elses) and we must unite teh two salomes so there can be a final showdown of level bosses with Carsen 4 the win! OC was treated to the kewl one on Sunday afternoon in Torino, where director Robert Carsen wowed the audience like clearing 4x4x4x4x4x Tetris rows with Korobeiniki blasting on the stereo.

The curtain rose on Herod’s palace, which was meticulously visualized as a sterile and commanding Las Vegas casino vault, excellently realized via floor to ceiling safety deposit boxes, and a gigantic, thick circular vault door on the right wall. Imposing walls covered in a grid of safes, and polished marble slabs covered the floor like a Manhattan mecha office lobby. On the left was a floor-to-ceiling escalator bank (but sadly, non-mechanized stairs). In front of the escalator was a security station, which consisted of a brushed metal banquette with nine plasma screens broadcasting eye-in-the-sky transmissions from around Herod’s casino. As Narraboth (sang by an excellent, light, and emotive Jörg Dürmüller) waxed poetic on the beauty and paleness of the princess, he simultaneously stared at her visage reclining on a lounge, unbeknownst to the security camera that was transmitting her every action to the plasma screen display.

Soldiers were updated as security personnel. Extras disguised as lounge waitresses were in 70s disco Egyptian garb, gold wedge sandals and short sparkling Cleopatra skirts wrapped around their hips, while the men went topless in Roman battle costume and the occasional helmet.

   

(above: Robert Carsen's Salome @ Torino's Teatro Regio. Photo: Ramella and Giannese/Piva) 

Enter Salome, sung by German soprano Nicola Beller Carbone, who again, was physically and vocally on point, but was lacking an overall charisma. Dressed in black Reeboks, black spandex capris, and a long black tank, she appeared to have just cruised in from a low-intensity workout at the gym. She was the perfect bored teen -- stormy, emo, and petulant, lounging carelessly on the security banquette.

It was when Mark S. Doss's plastic Jochanaan was summoned from the depths of the bank vault (via the vault door) that conductor of the evening, Roberto Fores Veses, really p00ped his frac, and his weakness was almost offensive. There was no attention paid to the leitmotifs or corresponding orchestral cues. There was no suspense, terror, or fire. Only big noise via the exaggerated gestures of a young conductor who flung his arms for a wall of sound. No shape, no dynamic, and forte to piano was managed by pure circumstance rather than technique. Overall the timbre of the orchestra was overbearing and effectively drowned-out all nuance of singing. The only goose bumps of the night were powered by Carsen's spot-on direction and vision.

After Jochanaan retreated back into his hidey-hole, Carsen's Jews appear in the guise of Herod & Herodias’ guests, dressed in cocktail party mode...rich silk dresses on the trophy wives and tuxedos on the retired lawyers and bankers. It was so refreshing not to have the stereotypical rabbinical Jews rushing around in circles mashing their spiny fingers together, tallit and payis flying about.

We met Herod, sleazy nouveaux riches and casino owner, who orders refreshments served by topless waitresses. Herodias was a washed-up Las Vegas showgirl, sporting an auburn wig, a gold sheath dress, and gold stiletto heels, while Herod was a slumlord dressed in a gaudy grey salesman suit and pink shirt.

(above: Robert Carsen's Salome @ Torino's Teatro Regio. Photo: Ramella and Giannese/Piva)

Tanz für mich was the apex of brilliance. We will always have a love/hate relationship with Robert Carsen. He is bursting full with such original ideas and revolutionary concepts, but sometimes goes astray in a heavy-handed, rebellious approach, slamming down genius with such forceful hammyfists that it becomes derivative, eye rolling drama...like a sullen teen who thrives on negative attention. We saw it in his Scala Candide last year as a prime example, and he went astray again in his Vienna Manon Lescaut (we did however love his Scala Kát'a Kabanová, but we saw that before we started blogging sucks 4 u!).

When obstinate, moody Salome finally agreed to dance her famous "Dance of the Seven Veils", she strutted out on stage dressed as a xerox copy of her washed-up, attention-whore  mother (sung by a screeching, trashy, but excellent Dagmar Pecková) in the same red wig, golden cocktail dress, and too-high heels, looking just as ill fit and age-inappropriate as her mother.

Manfred Voss's innovative lighting killed the stage floods and bathed the entire scene in gorgeous glittering gold, warm and sensuous, a pulsating, dynamic backdrop for the sickest Dot7Vs that OC ever saw. Salome strutted over and confronted her shocked mother doppleganger, jauntily mocking her and threatening her with overt sexuality.

(above: curtain call, the party guests)

Salome began dancing a cabaret-style seduction, plucking the retirees from the audience of her parent's party guests and grinding against them, pulling away the cashmere scarves of old men and leaving them stunned and breathless on the floor. Herod and Herodias were seated apart, stage front, and while her mother looked away uncomfortably, Herod was gleefully tantalized. Salome began a chair dance, and the retirees got up and danced around her, their clothes beginning to molt off their gyrating bodies. They took their handkerchiefs from their pockets and placed them over their faces, twirling around the oversexed Salome in anonymous frenzy. The whole dance built to a literally climatic finish, and Herod followed his stepdaughter's every erotic thrust with a large video camera, simultaneously broadcasting the action on the nine plasma screens at the security desk. wtf? Taking incest to a whole new level, this generation to be broadcast on YouTube or released for profit.

(above: curtain call, Jochanaan)

The dance is so unforgiving, so sexual -- she mimes fellatio on one of the men (old enough to be her grandfather), mimes sodomy from another, and even fellates her gold stiletto when her secksual appetite cannot be sated by the men. Salome dropped her dress to her ankles and finished the seduction in a cream silk slip. The men were literally rolling around on the floor at her feet in pure secksal ecstacy, air humping and pulling off their layers as quickly as their feverish hands could manage.

The end scene, and the men have shed all their clothes, all writhing around stark naked on the stage, white old man butts polarized as the gold lighting faded away and became an intense, harsh wash of white light. The plasma screens recorded all the action, close-ups of Salome's thrill of seduction, interplayed with x-rated shots of a women’s naked bits. At the end, she attacked her mother, grinding her lips against hers in a victorious struggle for matriarchal power. The Dance of the Seven Veils never gets me hawt, like not even close *yawn yawn* but this one was insanely suffused with raw eroticism and over stimulated incestuous taboo between father and daughter. It was off the higgety. ok pls dont start the rapture before i lose my virginity yae gawds.

(above: curtain call, Nicola Beller Carbone)

As the audience settled down and everyone tried to imagine garbage men on the toilet, nuns baking cookies, and homeless men playing chess, the scene segued into Ich verlange von dir den Kopf des Jochanaan, Salome turned haughty and absolutely unyielding, a girl suddenly aware of the powerful wield of blooming sexuality, and the manipulation over her father. Herod, still holding the video recorder, zoomed in on her face when she asked for Jochanaan's head. When he offered to bribe her with jewels, he plucked safety deposit keys from a ring, which his shallow party guests snatched and rushed off to capitalize on. Gold sand and glitter spontaneously poured from half a dozen of the uppermost boxes, raining down the background for a glorious effect.

(above: Robert Carsen's Salome @ Torino's Teatro Regio. Photo: Ramella and Giannese/Piva) 

As the head of Jochanaan is brought to Salome via the revelers who entered the vault door, it was brought to her bloodless and rubbery. Before the final kiss, the revelers, unable to feign pity or reflect on the severity of the beheaded saint, play a round of kickball with the rubber head. As Salome slinked off into the vault wall that broke apart to reveal a desert landscape, with the head of the prophet raised over her shoulders in outstretched arms, Herod instead called for his wife Herodias to be killed, to which the bloodthirsty revelers gleefully and instantly agreed.

Lights slammed shut, and this was the best direction of Salome OC could ever imagine. For the first time, OC can visualize why the 20th century opera was banned and criticized at its inception. The juxtaposition of the Dot7Vs and Herod's final blame raised the discourse to a conceptual level that worked in so many ways. I'm gonna go start a facebook group for this...brb.

(above: Teatro Regio Torino)

(above: exterior of Teatro Regio Torino)

(above: exterior front of Teatro Regio Torino)

(above: Downtown Torino)

(above: interior of Teatro Regio Torino)

Daniela Dessì & Fabio Armiliato @ Auditorium: Concerto Straordinario

Now that the mighty have fallen -- Netrebko & Schrott [née Villazón] are sooo not viable for soooo many reasons, while the Alagnas have quietly backpedaled into Backpedalville, the other opera couples don't really get us hard (Borodina & Abdrazakov), while all the old valentines are long gone (Callas & di Stefano, Freni & Pavarotti, Corelli & Nilsson) -- we're looking for another pair to take the crown & sceptre. This past Wednesday night at Milan's Auditorium, opera powah couple Fabio Fabulous Armiliato and Daniela Delicious Dessì brought a fresh aria to an eager audience.

The two swooped into town, between performances, to gift the sadly struggling laVerdi orchestra a concerto straordinario. The Orchestra Sinfonica di Milano Giuseppe Verdi holds a special place in our <3s, as it is comprised of the kids that still hold the reverberations of Maestro Giulini's loving retirement lessons, and we're always keen to support them. As the orchestra began with Verdi's overture from I Vespri Siciliani, the night was off to a nice start.

Time for the first aria, and Armiliato came out on the stage singing from Verdi's Otello, "Dio mi potevi scagliar", looking slick in a black suit and a black button-up shirt, with super shiny patent leather shoes. His acting was pensive and concentrated. Armiliato made a fine Otello, (and one that most fans were eager to sample) with a forceful demeanor, luscious voice, and memorable drama. 

Second aria was from Verdi's Il Trovatore, “Tacea la notte placida” sung by Daniela. She came on stage wearing a gorgeous gown, a classic Vera Wang wedding style in pale pink. The bustier was tight, with an adorable corseted back, and a thick pink silk ribbon wound through. The full skirt was gathered with layers and layers of heavy fabric. Only inches from her b3wbs rested a gorgeous diamond necklace, tiered with pendants, and matching bling on her wrist. Her voice bloomed and flourished from the warm wood of the gorgeous auditorium. Then the orchestra played again, with Verdi's La forza del destino sinfonia. Then the two came out together to sing from Verdi's Otello, “Già nella notte densa”.

Last October 2007 was the last time we saw the two sing together, when we had traveled to Vienna for the dynamic duo in Puccini's Manon Lescaut at the Wiener Staatsoper, which was only disappointing via Robert Carsen's faulty vision. Of course, there are perks to singing with your significant other -- the comfort, the chemistry, the trust, and synchronicity -- and these two know the drill. As the orchestra warmed the opening measures, Daniela caressed Fabio's face tenderly, which he reciprocated by taking her hand and kissing it. Playful Daniela picked at Fabio's jacket, tugging at a black cloth handkerchief that needed straightening. They sang locked in an embrace, holding hands, and fitted against each other like cutlery. At the end of the aria, they lovingly exchanged a quick, supportive kiss on the lips, Fabio planted one on her forehead, and they bathed in their deserved applause. They sang tenderly, with technique at full throttle.

We broke for 20 minutes so the singers could rest a bit, and then the fresh faces of la Verdi played their version of the Intermezzo from Puccini's Manon Lescaut to start the second half.

Then out came Armiliato ready to tear into his next aria, which hit with the force of a lightning bolt. He launched into the Improvviso from Giordano's Andrea Chénier and stunned the audience with his skills, which exited to the most thunderous applause and bravi. His voice filled the auditorium with ease, washing the hall without breaking a sweat.

Next was Daniela's turn, who had drastically changed her former pink froth into a smart black number. She showed-off a slimmer silhouette than what we've seen in recent years, firmer arms and slender waist (must have been working out but the out-of-control b3wbs are still there in all their impressive glory, good for her). Her dress was a straight long skirt to the floor, made from rows and rows of thin lace, while a black satin bow demarcated the bodice from the skirt. The top formed a deep v-neck with meaty straps, showcasing the same diamond necklace from the first half. She looked stunning, and showed off her secksy black stilettos while walking astride to (the not-always-flawless) conductor Marco Boemi.

She set it off with Verdi's La forza del destino "Pace mio Dio" and gave us a lesson in perfection, her voice growing more beautiful with every passage. She was a storm of bottled emotion with dramatic sweeps of her hands. After lots of cheers the orchestra enjoyed themselves with Ponchielli's Gioconda, Danza delle ore, with such energy that at one point, Boemi was pop-locking on the podium. Best moment of the night.

Then the couple came out for their last listed duet, which was Giordano's Andrea Chénier “Vicino a te s'acqueta". Again, the chemistry and tenderness between the two singers was impossible to deflect, and so genuine. As they finished their last aria, their voices already filling the auditorium for the past two hours, the audience exploded.

In the end, they gave three bis. The first they gave together in duet, the Brindisi from Verdi's La Traviata...a playful, sweet round with the orchestra filling in for the missing chorus. Corny, kinda cheesy, yeah, but hay...

Then came out Fabio for his solo bis, which he chose as Nessun Dorma from Puccini's Turandot. Great, but it proved to be the fertile breeding ground for the only abberation of the evening, as Armiliato broke the last note of the aria's last "Vincerò" and dropped it like it was hawt. No matter, as the audience bolstered his over-extension and eagerly applauded before the end of the piece, like devoted sports fans at an injured player taken off field.

Daniela ended the evening on a glorious note and Callasized "Poveri fiori" from Cilèa's Adriana Lecouvreur. Her pronunciation was superb ("soave e forte bacio di morte") showing us her many years of following the old skool by not eating your words when you sing.

After the performance, as it was already 11pm, Fabio and Daniela went into overtime by signing autographs in the downstairs lobby of Auditorium for their adoring fans and selling their duet disc. OC, although certainly an adoring fan, had to rush out at the last note of Poveri Fiori, and was unable to meet teh superstars. But it's all good. OC had a Dirty Dancing dream that night. Armiliato was Johnny Castle, Daniela was Penny Johnson, and OC was Baby (of course)...and we all danced the drrrrty mambo and ate watermelon. I HAD TEH TIME OF MY LIFE! [warning: youtube link].

Floats Like A Butterfly, Stings Like A Bee: Wozzeck @ La Scala (Please Excuse Us Maestro Berg)

Once upon a time in 1952, when Wozzeck was introduced for the first time in front of that famously embalmed audience of Teatro alla Scala, a posse blissfully 25 to 50 years late whenever it comes to appreciate music -- nothing safer than be an oldskool snob, after all -- the booing and whistling and plain yelling was so loud that Maestro Mitropolous, from the podium, with the patience and kindness that probably ended up breaking -- literally -- his heart eight years later, when he died on the podium at la Scala conducting a rehearsal of Mahler's III -- Mitropoulos asked the audience to let them finish, and then, only then, yell and boo as much as they wanted to.

Twenty -- and then twenty-five -- years later, of course, Claudio Abbado's memorable Wozzeck got a much warmer applause. The very production we saw tonight, directed by Juergen Flimm, was inaugurated here in 1997 under the baton of the great Giuseppe Sinopoli and, in a precious b00tleg version recorded then, it remains our favorite Wozzeck -- yes, better than Abbado's, deal with it. Better than, ahem, and we never thought we'd say this, Carlos Kleiber's cabaret piece and Boulez's autopsy. Even better than our dear James Levine's sharp-as-a-Japanese-sushi-chef's-knife version.

Sinopoli's deep, infinitely refined, monstrously intelligent analysis of the score is probably the definitive one, for us, the same way we think the definitive Wozzeck -- well, Woyzeck, technically -- has the scary mad wounded visage of Klaus Kinski, in the Herzog film (an obvious masterpiece -- if you have not seen it yet, you're uncool, so finish reading this review and then Netflix it or something).

But Daniele Gatti's reading of this score, a score that could blind you with his brilliance the way staring at the sun will make you blind (or go insane), comes to us right after Sinopoli's for its warmth, its beauty, and its rich sense of the drama behind each and every note.

There are some nights at the opera – despite being crammed into an auditorium that smells like a high school gymnasium and is almost as hot as the locker rooms, and despite overpriced tickets that either cost as much as a plane ticket to Paris or London or Amsterdam or for a slightly less shameful price offer obstructed views of the stage – where there is magic tangible in the (stuffy) air. Earlier tonight at la Scala, that spark of electricity was ignited, and everything came together in an incendiary blaze of art & music laid bare. Alban Berg’s Wozzeck was just that.

The merciless direction by Jürgen Flimm called for lucid characters that were not to be pitied. Flimm understands that directing this piece successfully is more about what you take out than what you leave in or, even worse, add. The poor were not exploited victims -- unlike the Hostel-like, Troma-inspired postapocalyptic version of this opera given by Calixto Bieito -- but completely in control of their own fate, existing in a set betwixt one of Richard Serra's Torqued Ellipses, brushed in a burnished reddish-orange glow. The background went from a Mars landscape of barren post-war battlefields, to a final scene filled with what can only be described as the hoverboard lights from E.T.'s mothership. It was all very early Netherlandish painting inspired, almost from a Bosch triptych, but with less orgies, sodomy, bird-headed beasts, and flying fish (incidentally, we'd love to hire M. Night Shyamalan to take a crack at Wozzeck-as-ghost-story, but it's just us, we know).

Wozzeck was interpreted by Austrian baritone Georg Nigl. His downward spiral, especially the hair-raising moments before killing Marie (voiced by an excellent Evelyn Herlitzius even if we think that last year's Marie at Opera di Roma, Janice Baird, has an edge on Herlitzius), was acted superbly. Georg had excellent control...a spectrum he displayed from a whispering, delicate falsetto to an icy delusional rant. Everything from the seduction to the knife to the murder was excellence exemplified.

Although Berg's tonal and atonal composition have been discussed to death, Maestro Daniele Gatti must have had his ear attuned to every single debate since like, forever, because tonight he demonstrated to the few who doubt it that he belongs on that very small gentlemen's club, the dozen or so best conductors working today. Gatti pwned the orchestra like the Rubix's Cube, with no cheating (peeling off the stickers...we saw what u did thare!). Gatti managed to create unbearable suspense, truly agonizing and teasing, transforming Wozzeck into Stravinksy's Rite of Spring...like a Jaws or Psycho score of opera. After that amazing balancing act Maestro Gatti, at curtain call, received the most bravi, and not because he was conducting in his native Milan. He was rightfully deserving: managing to fuse together an apparent complete dichotomy of conducting, delicate and forceful, intense and waning -- the most subtle whispers of pianissimo giving way to jarring and shattering fortissimo. All in deference to Cassius Clay’s adage.   

Ferruccio Furlanetto Brings The BadA$$ Bass

On this cold Milan night, Ferruccio Furlanetto brought the powah to La Scala, and thawed the hoars frost from our frosty hoars. Don't ask me what that means because I'm not tellin. La Scala begrudgingly greeted OC in layers and layers of Boule de Neige and vintage Brooks Brothers black cashmere, topped with a Stephen Jones hat (one of Anna Piaggi's favs, too, and she is never wrong).

We were surprised to see the house only 2/3 filled considering Furlanetto made his professional debut on the Scala stage almost 30 years ago in Verdi's Macbeth and has since then bustin' some serious bass all over the world. But that's what we've sadly come to expect from a traditional Milanese audience that is scared of zee Roossian repertory because it sounds like Communist or something. Not that Ferruccio "I Got Teh Powah" Furlanetto didn't show it off well. His cancellation from last month hardly took a toll on his mecha ninja vocal powah, and he rattled the rafters with his trademark boomin bass. Stately in a frac and shiny patent leather shoes, he capped his Russian pronunciation with gleeful skill, proving that he was totally worthy of being the only Italian to ever sing Boris Godunov at the Mariinsky (where Opera Chic once mopped the floors before being discovered and launching her international career, but that's another story).

The Russian invasion provided a gorgeous and varied playlist, filled with a moody, melancholy longing that marked the music. All so emo, we were almost expecting Furlanetto to show up with a Chanel Black Satin manicure and a white vinyl belt. Furlanetto breezed through the Rachmaninov and Mussorgsky set list, with help from a podium full o' sheet music (and weird phonetic rendering of the intricacies of Russian diction). Pianist Igor Tchetuev was an adept match for Furlanetto's powah, hitting the keys with a lovely sforzando, never whaling on the keys [ed: thru his blowhole] like a hopped-up Barenboim. At the curtain calls, we were touched to see Furlanetto embrace him like a father to a son. He added only two bis to the evening -- both Tchaikovsky pieces -- the first one being “Blagoslavlyayu vas, lesa”, which was suffused with a tenderness and beauty that hadn’t been fully showed-off during the formal recital. 

After the pause, Furlanetto came out in an off the shoulder pink gown by Zac Posen and pair of Balenciaga sandals, size 13. ok ok. Just making sure that you’re paying attention here…

He threw himself into the whole performance, shaping each passage with great emotion, shifting from allegro to adagio to andante easily – a giant bonus of his selected Russian repertoire – all sustained through his undeniable power. His voice, understandably, is tired, and his technique has slid into a zone that leaves a bit to be desired, with plenty of strain at the top. But he’s paid his dues, and makes up for it through his sheer force and energy and charisma and nicely burnished hues. 

Short and sweet, the recital was packed full of a creamy bass who still gots tha powah and made Italians -- well those who care about such things -- proud around the world. He flexed his vocal muscle with great sentiment, and pwnd the stage with his towering presence. We’re now going to play a few rounds of Tiger Woods PGA 08 on the xbox in deference to Furlanetto, a very keen golfer with a perfectly adequate handicap for someone with such a hectic schedule, who’s prolly dying to hit up the green right about now.

Again With Placido Domingo as Cyrano @ La Scala: Bigger, Better, Nasalier. The Full Review

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production, with Sondra Radvanovsky as Roxane & Placido Domingo as Cyrano. All shots below courtesy of Ken Howard. Source. La Scala Disclaimer: All photos are not from the La Scala production, since La Scala's lawyers forbade us to use their promotional stuff among other things -- rather these are shots from 2005 at The Metropolitan Opera).

After the initial Tuesday night recap of Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac we saw opening night at La Scala, here we are less than 48 hours l8r and the impressions haven't changed much, although we've changed outfits a few times. In black Prada heels, more Wolford black leggings (just like mah gurl Linds-say) a white Comme des Garçons long t-shirt, an oversized Jil Sander grey cashmere cardigan, and Aquascutum grey trench, La Scala wasn't quite as scalding as when they welcomed our poor JDF one night prior, and OC was thankfully not sweating through her cashmere.   

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production. Act I. Photo credit: Ken Howard. Source.)

With the libretto written in French by Henri Cain, inspired from the play by Edmond Rostand based on the real life tales of Cyrano, Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac is an expressive, at times jarringly sad masterpiece, which we can all thank Maestro Domingo for exhuming from obscurity, as it fell out of popular stage space quickly after its premiere in 1936. Throughout its paltry performance history, the libretto has been in constant flux between Italian and French translations, although we prefer this suitably in French.

First performed in pre-WWII Europe (o say what?), and a close contemporary to Berg's Wozzeck, and Schoenberg's Moses und Aron, Cyrano experiments with some gorgeous sounds of theater. This is musical theater's infancy, and Alfano just gets it right. The plot is amazingly simple to follow, and the story delivers comic relief without eliciting crude guffaws. The music is full of beauty, sweeping passages, and the purity of truth and love bubbles on the surface of every note. The colors are very, well, French, totally romantic, but never sappy or clumsy.

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production. Act I. Photo credit: Ken Howard. Source.)

Every single musical phrase had been practiced and studied, and carefully shaped. The music dutifully, yet gorgeously, pushes all the action: At the first encounter between Cyrano and Roxane, the strings literally climax to a shattering, vibrating crescendo, and then ripple away as a breaking wave, and you can truly imagine Cyrano's heart literally engulfed in Roxane's devastating beauty. Thanks to Maestro Patrick Fournillier, who aimed to fill the house with an enormous, but never overwhelming sound coaxed from the Scala Orchestra, and even elicited a round of Bravo from the super-discerning gallerie when he came back out after the intermission to take the stand. 

The vocal lines that Sondra Radvanovsky as Roxane sang were fierce and powerful, and she not only brought it but brang it. Ms. Radvanovsky has not the most gorgeous voice, but properly implemented it throughout every single scene, and pushed along the narrative line when the libretto failed in parts. She's had the good fortune to successfully weather a three year run of the same production, already singing the role @ The Metropolitan Opera in both 2005 & 2006, and at the Royal Opera House in 2006, all opposite Domingo. She choose her acting well, and used her limbs very practiced, posed, and careful. She was passionate and reserved at the same time.

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production. Act II. Photo credit: Ken Howard. Source.)

Francesca Zambello's elegant and complex direction paid careful attention every single entity on stage. Every extra from the bakers to the soldiers had been given specific direction, and carried out with great acting their sub-minor roles. The effect was very Les Mis, where the chorus was pushed into a prominent thrust of the action, and the Scala chorus and extras delivered fabulously, void of hamminess or eye-rolling mockery. Appealing romantic costumes were generalized and idealized like Disney's Robin Hood with a touch of elegance.

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production. Act III. Photo credit: Ken Howard. Source.)

The other stars of the night, Pietro Spagnoli as De Guiche, Simone Alberghini as Carbon, and German Villar as Christian were all well enough supporting singers, but the attention was all on Domingo and Radvanovsky.

As for Placido The Minger, OC thinks it's lame to speak about his waning voice, because it's glaring, a given, that a man approaching his 70s couldn't retain his former glory -- although peeking through you still get those moments of beauty and flight that Domingo once mastered (like in Act I's "Ballade du duel" or Act II's "Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne". A contemporary of Bruson and Nucci, Domingo has refused to slow down, and still can support the role of a much younger tenor, believably sprite and graceful, albeit a bit tired. Lucky for him, the role is not terribly physical nor does it demand lots of singing aside from the last stirring act.

(Above: Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac in the Francesca Zambello production. Act III. Photo credit: Ken Howard. Source.)

We left the theater knowing that Placido Domingo will soon hang up his performaning hat, so to still catch him on stage is something really quite spectacular. HE WAS THE BEST THEN HE IS THE BEST NOW NO ONE CAN TOUCH THAT $H1T BY0TCH$

Now go enjoy yourselves some nice b00tleggian clips that our YouTube opera brethren have uploaded of the very same Franco Alfano's Cyrano de Bergerac Domingo/Zambello/Radvanovsky production from MET 2005/2006 and ROH 2006.

Act I: SWASHBUCKLING DOMINGO!

Act II: DOMINGO THE K0çK-BLOCKER!

Act III: DOMINGO -- HE DAED!

Anytime, Anyplace, Juan Diego Flórez Sticks it to Milan. JDF Scala Recital, The Review

(Since La Scala's lawyers have warned OC in the past that she cannot post any images taken from inside the opera house, here's a file photo of our lovely joo-whan. Btw, you can read the initial review from a few hours prior here)

Expecting anything less than spectacular when going to see Juan Diego Flórez live – whether it be to witness a recital or opera…or even just to watch him washing his car or filing his taxes or setting the correct time on his DVD recorder – and *not* having your mind blow is pure folly. Which is why we arrived to the theater tonight in motorcycle helmets.

Ok not really…instead in the balmy Milan air (compared to the frigid winds earlier this weekend in Venice), OC boogied down to Scala in sky-high Fendi black leather platform pumps, Wolford velvet de Luxe gray leggings, a Stella McCartney gray silk shift dress, and my navy Miu Miu wool baby doll jacket, and was ready to show those Flórez groupies what’s what. No worries to the Trappester, who we spied in the audience, wearing a short black A-line dress with weird lacy shoulder caps and a plunging neckline, long blond hair free to her waist, and who later rushed past our entourage in the hallway to meet her Lamby Prince backstage. We were going to tackle her to the ground and make her give up the make of Flórez’s favorite undawarz so we could send him a pair, but it wasn’t worth scuffing my Fendis. We also admit that we wanted to pass on some recipes for some slammin osso buco or fatty cotoletta, as Flórez was looking tragically thin, and we couldn’t help but worry that Trappe’s Erdnuss-Crème sandwiches haven’t been to his liking these first few months of marriage.

Anyway, Flórez (every time you say his name it just makes him more powerful) took the stage earlier tonight to a rapt audience that was so appreciative and awestruck in front of his talent, that even before he uttered a single note, the bravi was heaped on his shoulders, to which he graciously acknowledged via his graceful idiosyncrasies, swathed in full frac and shiny patent leather shoes. Let's pop in that mix tape and put it on megabass.

He warmed up the house with Mozart's "Dies Bildnis ist bezaubernd schön" from Die Zauberflöte, which was lovely enough, but OC rather prefers his tenore lirico of the bel canto Italian composers. The audience was tolerant of his delve into German-language repertoire, but we all knew why we really had come here tonight, and waited patiently. Next in line for the Mozart flow was "Si spande al sole in faccia" from Il Re Pastore, which exited to the first magnificent encore of the evening, well deserving as he ate those poor scales and arpeggi like Godzilla devouring Tokyo…the loggione and palchi exploding in applause and bravi. Then Bellini’s "La ricordanza", which was flawless in phrasing and suffused with emotion, to which Flórez reminded us all of his thorough control and effortless negotiations through any operatic score.

Then we had Rossini’s Les soirees musicales. During L’orgia lol, the audience exploded into (an orgy of) applause during a brief piano interlude before the work had completed, which was met with scolding hushes. Then JDF left the stage while excellent pianist, Vincenzo Scalera, played alone a waltzy Musique Anodine Prélude.

The last work before the break was “Deh! Truncate” from Elisabetta Regina d’Inghilterra. Flórez’s voice was a bit taxed at this point, and he had been expressing a dry tone for the first half of the recital. As Scalera played the intro measures, Flórez loudly cleared phlegm from his throat a few times, tugged at his white bowtie, and seemed perturbed. Scala was scalding tonight, arid as a desert and Flórez seemed to be suffering from that ailment, which he nevertheless plowed through professionally. Flawless Flórez always brings the charisma, and although none of that was lacking tonight, he was clearly suffering from the dry, hot heat in the theater, and it was the worst shape OC had ever seen him. Granted, the worst shape for Flórez is like 20x better than any old tenor, and still, he held to his game. After 50 minutes of singing, Flórez was treated to another rousing applause, filled with almost as many bravi as heard when he sang here last in February 2007 for La Fille du Régiment.

Flórez stepped back up to the stage less than a half hour later, and sang five consecutive songs by Rosa Mercedes Ayarza de Morales in clear diction and refreshed energy, animated acting, and feisty blocking. The first, “Cuando la tortora llora” was short and sweet, with an “Ay yi yi” thrown in for good measure. “Si mi voz muriera en tierra” showed-off the patented, impressive range of his voice, although filled with lament. At the end of the five songs, someone shouted, “Bravo Peru” and we all followed JDF’s outstretched hand, which pointed to the first galleria: A group of loggionisti had brazenly thrown over the side railing a Peruvian flag, and somehow didn’t get thrown out of the theater by the surly Scala pages.

French repertory was next, and Flórez sang “J’ai perdu mon Euridice” from Gluck’s Orphée et Eurydice, which was hauntingly gorgeous. His perfect control and concentrated movement brought this one over the top, and again, the audience went wild at the end. Next, his “L’espoir renaît dans mon âme” wasn’t quite as strong, but it was all forgotten during his “Linda!” from Donizetti’s Linda di Chamounix, full on tenore di grazia, and full on fierce.

Bis time, and after thousands of screams from both male and female fans, he gifted us with "Una furtiva lagrima" from L'elisir d'amore, which he sung with such great passion, his acting off tha charts, his heart aching and his hands clenched in fists…then Ah Leve Toi Soleil from Romeo Et Juliette, then that one from his Great Tenor Arias disc of Lucrezia Borgia, and then "La donna è mobile" from Rigoletto (to which he began the opening measures by placing a rose playfully between his teeth, Duke styleee). Between each bis, requests came flooding in from the audience as if he were Frank Sinatra on world tour.

His final and fifth encore was "L'Alba Separa dalla Luce l'Ombra" by Francesco Paolo Tosti, which again, brought down the house. For all the flowers that rained down on the stage from the palchi, he gathered them all up in his hands, and acknowledged the audience as personally as his own family. Which is one of the reasons (aside from his skill) that his fans love him so: Every sea of an audience he manages to separate into an individual devotee, with his open glances and waves, humbly accepting without a touch of phoniness or annoyance that his voice indeed carries a true glimpse of the sublime within each note he emits…and it is via these moments, that we classical music followers find an addicting solace. Some have been known to even pee their pants in sheer extasy.

Graham Vick Continues to F*@k Up UR Opera House: La Rondine In Venezia, The Full Opera Chic Review

Fondazione Teatro La Fenice di Venezia opened its stagione 2008 with Giacomo Puccini’s La Rondine. (See initial review here for more information.)

Unless you have an undying Cedolins fetish -- OC doesn't, as she finds Cedolins correct, attractive, and with a good dose of charisma but essentially uninspiring -- or a penchant for operas with boring characters, this production, in the end, was better seen than heard. Not that the Venice populace would have cared