Opera Chic

Rolex Remembers Patrice Chéreau

Celebrations and remembrance. This past weekend at Venice's San Giorgio Maggiore island, Rolex capped the 2012-13 cycle of its Mentor and Protégé Arts Initiative. The program -- which matches half-a-dozen creative arts emerging talents to prominent mentors -- included French director Patrice Chéreau and young Polish theater director Michał Borczuch.

In addition to presenting Borczuch's final project, a memorial was held for Chéreau, who passed away recently at age 68. An intimate profile follows below.

Seven new members were announced for the 2014-15 cycle, which includes Finnish composer Kaija Saariaho.

Patrice Chéreau: 1944 - 2013

The French opera director Patrice Chéreau (among so many more talents) has passed away. His 1976 Ring Cycle for Bayreuth with Boulez broke the mold. OC was lucky to have seen his Janáček From the House of the Dead at La Scala and The Metropolitan Opera (here and here), both in indelible direction, in addition to his Tristan und Isolde at Scala (here and here).

From the House of the Dead: Finally it's La Scala's Turn for Janácek’s (and Chéreau's) Masterpiece

 

Although too many empty seats stretched across the Teatro alla Scala platea on the opening night of Leoš Janácek’s Czech masterpiece, From the House of the Dead, eight minutes of applause thanked the excellent production team which stirred the dust from sets that had earlier transformed the stage into a Siberian Gulag. For the second time in La Scala's history, From the House of the Dead was presented to the Milanese, Sunday night in the legendary Patrice Chéreau production that has been trailblazing through International opera houses for the past three years, bulletproof by mesmerized opera critics, paralyzing audiences with its theatrical vernacular, blue-white brilliant clarity told in unflinching parameters. First it was Pierre Boulez enjoying the conducting victory, but Esa-Pekka Salonen's been chaperoning the production since it last showed, which was at NYC's Metropolitan Opera a few months ago (that Opera Chic had the pleasure of attending, full review here).

Patrice Chéreau's production -- called by Corriere della Sera's chief music critic as, "un allestimento mirabolante" and "la regia di Patrice Chéreau, mi ripeto, la perfezione" -- was again lovingly bolstered by his excellent co-conspirators: Thierry Thieu Niang's choreography, Richard Peduzzi's sets, Caroline De Vivaise's costumes, and Bertrand Couderc's lights. As opposed to the gaping maw of auditorium space offered by NYC's Met Opera (we say that with lots of endearment), the smaller dimensions of La Scala's stage drastically altered the emotional impact. The opera read as a more personal, intimate experience, less cinematic, and the sets were more oppressive and claustrophobic.

Esa-Pekka, who was additionally called by the same Corriere della Sera critic as, "il piu' grande maestro della sua generazione", led the orchestra in an evening of evocative music with a decisive, masterful, and unrelenting drive that never sounded muscled or thunderous. John Mark Ainsley sung a gorgeous Skuratove, and Peter Mattei's Šiškov was flawless. Patrice Chéreau's chef d'œuvre continues to stun audiences for its sheer beauty, the Milanese equally receptive to its charm.

So What Are You in For? Patrice Chéreau's Buoyant From the House of the Dead

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention. And so began Patrice Chéreau's achingly theatrical production of Leoš Janácek’s From the House of the Dead, in a Shakespearean tribute, darkness punctuated by a single match -- a prisoner lighting his cigarette -- our first glimpse of the Siberian prison that would be our reckoning point for the next hour (and some), where humility is all that keeps buoyant in the oppressive confines of the descending concrete walls.

Gelb frantically covered all his bases in the month leading-up to the premiere, speaking about the ensuing Czech opera from the insultingly lowbrow dailies to the heavy hitters & glossies, drumming up support for the opera that blazed a glorious comet-trail of success across Europe last year (and the year before that), leaving critics and Janácek-martyrs alike breathless from Pierre Boulez's conducting with Patrice Chéreau's coup d'theatre.

After the Luc Bondy Tosca scuffle that opened the Metropolitan Opera's 2009/10 season, where boos rained-down from the offended, excitable self-appointed arbiters of the Family Circle ring, Gelb (and the rest of the world) now had a scarily-sobering barometer of what the Metropolitan audiences considered avant garde. And frankly, if Bondy's calm-as-a-kitten Tosca was treated by NYC audiences like Calixto Bieito's fisting/S&M visions of proctological Regie, one should definitely worry about the well-being of Chéreau. So Gelb rode weary his House of the Dead warpath, proclaiming the Met's "theatrical renaissance", relying on free panels and local news promos to ingratiate Janácek to the people. Did all that exhausting work deliver a nice payload? Well, last night, OC witnessed one of the longest MET curtain calls that she's ever lingered for (c'mon...while we Milanese stick around for 20+ headline-breaking minutes of applause, those serious businessmen NY'ers rush out do their serious businessmen things). All in all, a nice reception for Patrice Chéreau's house debut.

And so last night premiered Leoš Janácek’s last opera, From the House of the Dead, never before staged in the MET's history. It's okay. There's a time and place for that strict, uncompromising Czech a$$hole. And that time is now...the lean, streamlined version from Chéreau's body-of-work that teasingly floats hope and morality millimeters away from Janácek’s harrowing score, love and pity closely intertwined. The opera is an assemblage of unsentimental, unflinching scenes from Dostoyevsky's book of the same name (without narrative thrust or clear protagonists) of his 4 years spent in a Siberian gulag. A poignant, cinematic treatment, including the English titles that were projected on the back of the scenery, fittingly like film noir.

As each prisoner enumerates their crimes, they no longer are the psychopathic criminals, and each becomes his own distinct character. As OC heard here at the Met Panel, Chéreau hired professional actors to mix with the singers to heighten his desired theatrical conventions. Railing against the powers that have locked them in, each prisoner is a distinct entity, uplifting and full of humility in the face of oppression. Here we have no hardened criminals resigned to do their time lifting weights and reading the bible (and getting crappy tattoos)...we have instead humble men, spurned on by survival and clutching to the last remnants of hope, whether it be a stuffed eagle that spirits the men to their imaginations or remembrance of landscapes past.

Chéreau's production team seamlessly wove an opera that transported the Metropolitan Opera audiences from the massive, sterile maw of that cosmopolitan stage to Vienna or Amsterdam or Aix-en-Provence (heck, even Milan where "Da una casa di morti" will premiere in March 2010).

Longtime Chéreau collaborator and  French set designer Richard Peduzzi, who was responsible for that Tosca that ya'll hated so much (OMG *that's* not what an Italian church looks like!) erected large gray massive walls that opened and closed as the opera progressed; Associate director Thierry Thieû Niang choreographed the excellent prison secks pantomime, homage to the French ballet interludes so cherished in traditional opera; French costume designer Caroline de Vivaise had a very Max Ernst vision and color palette, perfectly visualized with every detail caressed; Lighting maestro Bertrand Couderc expertly fluctuated from creamy rose-tinged washes to golden afternoons to soul-baring, psychopathic whites.

Former MD of the the L.A. Phil Esa-Pekka Salonen made his house debut last night, presenting a score full of clarity and vibrant light, saddled with lush romanticism and a buoyancy that echoed Dostoevsky's book: cruel human trauma suffused with wit and an underlying sense of hope. For Esa-Pekka to carry off such a sound at the cavernous and impersonal auditorium of the MET was quite a skill indeed. An unforgiving, unflinching mastery, Esa-Pekka plowed ahead ruthlessly in a soaring, expressive dialog with his singers on-stage, never rushing never overshadowing.

Towering Swedish baritone Peter Mattei sang Shishkov, the prisoner with the most intricate past, effectively pushing his character through all the phases of remembrance and retribution. Czech tenor Stefan Margita as Filka/Luka sang effectively and cunningly,  American tenor Kurt Streit as the psychotic Skuratov was a standout, with the remainder of the main characters -- British tenor Peter Hoare as Shapkin and bass-baritone Willard White as Gorianchikov -- wonderfully rounding-out the corps of political prisoners.

Are American opera audiences ready to accept what the Europeans/Brits so easy recognize -- that there exists in this scarily-big world production-driven performances and that the singers themselves don't always have to be the ticket-sellers? Let's hope that Chéreau effectively indoctrinates, prison secks included. 

From the House of the Met: Chéreau/Gelb/Esa-Pekka tête-à-tête

Debut, debut, debut for the Metropolitan Opera's encroaching premiere of Leoš Janáček’s From the House of the Dead, which drops to the delight of OC (and her European brethren in NYC) on November 12.

The Czech opera, the last penned in Janáček's career, has never before been staged in the MET's entire history -- quite fittingly adept for producer Patrice Chéreau and Finnish conductor Esa-Pekka Salonen's house debuts next week. Thanks to The Gelbster, Americans will be privy to a (variation of a) production that blazed through cultural headlines in prestigious dailies abroad as a roundly bulletproof work, and untouchable coup d'theatre that had critics and Janáček fetishists (OC fits in somewhere on that spectrum) clamoring for tickets.

Pierre Boulez, who had conducted the FTHOTD European runs, bowed out of the USA duties, citing travel preparations as just too strenuous for his advanced years (the reality is, he actually thinks we're all barbarians over here in the Colonies). Picking up the baton is former MD of the LA Phil, Esa-Pekka Salonen, who joined Gelb and Patrice Chéreau, glorious Frenchman and stage, film, and opera director (who could easily be a 007 film extra/James Bond advisor) on stage last night in a free chat with future ticket holders about their gloriously terrifying Janáček vision.

In what Gelb called a theatrical renaissance for the MET, Patrice Chéreau is undoubtedly most qualified to breathe life into Gelb's inspired strategy -- first known to the opera masses after a 1976 Bayreuth Ring cycle, although past collaborations with theater luminaries such as Giorgio Strehler at Milan's Piccolo Teatro mark his long, theatrical career. Although Chéreau may have been the most appealing project leader, he petitioned for many stipulations regarding the Czech opera. He hired professional actors to mix with the singers, as his vision for effectively presenting the opera relied on a predominantly theatrical convention. Also, main characters have to spend the evening completely untethered without the aid of a prompter, as Chéreau wanted the actors absolutely focused on personal interactions. Nor was the prompter's box harmonic with the clean visual aesthetics of the stage setting, carefully planned by French set designer Richard Peduzzi (longtime Chéreau collaborator who also designed the sets for Tosca).

In co-production with Vienna, Amsterdam, and Aix-en-Provence, what unfolds on stage for the MET is markedly different than what has been seen in Europe, along with a new crop of singers and actors. Even costume designer Caroline de Vivaise stepped it up for the cast: after vacationing in Hungary and exploring the local flea markets, new inspirations came for guard and prisoner costumes, each painstakingly chosen to match the idiosyncrasies of each singer. Swedish baritone Peter Mattei sings Shishkov, Czech tenor Stefan Margita sings Filka Morozov, American tenor Kurt Streit sings Skuratov, British tenor Peter Hoare sings Shapkin, and bass-baritone Willard White sings Gorianchikov, and will all have their turns at encapsulating the trenchant themes of hope and survival, the steely pulse of Dostoevsky's book, written after spending soul-crushing years in a Siberian gulag.

After the MET run, FTHOTD heads to Milan in March 2010 where Scala gets its horny hands on it -- this time as Da una casa di morti where Esa-Pekka Salonen and crew get to kick up their post-game heels at Da Giacomo over steaming plates of garganelli alla bottarga, and Opera Chic will be throwing her Carine Gilson handmade panties -- well, culottes, actually -- in the orchestra pit, hoping E-Pek catches them.

Baci @ Classica For the Following Post

(**Please go here if you're looking for Marcelo Alvarez's surprise La Scala cancellations...)

OC gets down on her knees and sends giant, soft kisses to Classica Italia for last night's re-broadcast of the December 7, 2007 Tristan und Isolde live from Teatro alla Scala. How sweet it was to stay in last night and nurse my lingering Tristan und Isolde hangover with the hair of the dog that bit me: moar vagnair. Although this time, Triscuits Underpantsies went much better with OC draped across the couch, wrapped in 00s Eres & 90s Paul Costelloe under a 80s Bardelli cream cashmere blanket & sipping on some gin & juice Cremes Gaja red. Yah, it was teh bomb and yah u wish u were here.

We have to say that live, Barenboim's warmth and delicate mastery of the orchestra didn't translate as we had wished to the plasma, nor did the impact of Meier's acting. The suckiness of Act II lulled me again to sleep, but I was roused promptly by some of Meier's howling. So it's all good. 

Here below are screenshots of the spectacle. And damn...on 42" plasma, Meier's forehead barely cracked an inch under her most forced of laments. And now the legal stuff: The following shots are pictures taken from a television broadcast, and are not promotional materials of Teatro alla Scala.

 

Above: Act I, The chorus & Kurwenal, sung by Gerd Grochowski

Above: Act I, scenery.

Above: Act I, Waltraud Meier singing Isolde.

 

Above: Act I, Waltraud Meier singing Isolde.

Above: Act I, Ian Storey singing Tristan.

Above: Act II, Waltraud Meier singing Isolde and Brangäne's Michelle De Young

Above: Act II, Ian Storey singing Tristan & Waltraud Meier's Isolde

   

Above: Act II, Ian Storey singing Tristan & Waltraud Meier's Isolde

Above: Act II, König Marke's Matti Salminen

Above: Act III, Barenboim arrives for Act III's awesomeness

Above: Act III, Dying Tristan & Kurwenal's Gerd Grochowski

Above: Act III, You're all gonna die!

Above: Waltraud Meier's Isolde takes a final bow @ curtain call

Above: König Marke as Matti Salminen @ curtain call

Above: Ian Storey singing Tristan @ curtain call

 

Above: Barenboim @ curtain call

Above: Director Patrice Chéreau

Tristan & Isolde Invade Milan (And Give OC A Splitting Headache)

OC is v a r y  s l o o o o w l y recovering from a Wagner-induced hangover today, which not even the strongest caffè macchiato & brioche have yet chased away. Since the last time La Scala performed Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, OC was just planetary fumes, she thought she’d go out in style: I arrived last night @ the Piermarini in Alexander McQueen round, bubble toe platform stilettos with white stitching, sans stockings (c’mon…those are for old Milanese grannies), and a matching McQueen black silk suit: cigarette skirt covering my legs, and a fitted matching jacket with a ribbon tie. Underneath instead of ridiculous jewels (OC wanted to go as minimal as Patrice Chéreau’s streamlined production), I wore a Dior white silk ruffle collar blouse. Then to hold lipstick & cash, a vintage Lanvin patent leather clutch, and over everything, a vintage black Chanel wool jacket found this summer at Resurrection Vintage in Los Angeles (although we passed on the Chanel fanny pack).

Sadly last night, OC was in the minority for her choice of outerwear, as there were more old women in fur than you could shake Toscanin's baton at: fur wraps, fur collars, and miles of fur jackets. It honestly made OC a little queasy, all that old, natty, syrupy fur wrapped around black dresses. And yes, as always, black was the color to be seen in, a safe and predictable wardrobe standby @ the Piermarini. And all VIPs -- doctors, lawyers, former heads of media houses, architects -- all the old European money marking that glistens as bright as the ancestral jewels and that scary plastic surgery on the blondest of former brunettes.

OC arrived easily at the theater, having learned from last year the most crowded and anxiety-ridden routes to avoid. Awesomely, this year was markedly less skankeriffic, and displayed more Milan elegance as opposed to last year’s load of horribly appointed escorts and their balding lawyer pimps. @ this year's Teatro alla Scala la prima, the Italian newspapers have a few lovely photo galleries, which you can find online: 24 photos here, 20 photos here, and 5 photos here [ed: found 7 photos here @ Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung].

To describe the scene outside, the police close-off the entire Piazza della Scala, with the statue of Leonardo pleasantly looking on, and many surrounding streets as most arrivals stream from via Manzoni. Cops in riot gear lollls heh and police on horseback roamed the cleared areas in the streets, and tons of tourists and locals stood behind the metal barriers to get a good look at the arriving VIPs. A mountain of paparazzi hovered by the front doors. Across the piazza, there is almost always a large demonstration in front of Palazzo Marino (City Hall) where this year, almost 1K VIP guests would be dining after the performance, making a fuss for the heads of state (this year it was a protest from Alfa Romeo – we want moar hoarspowah!!). Again, this year arriving at the theater under overcast skies (better for OC so she didn’t have to figure out where to put her Tom Ford sunglasses during the performance), but leaving the theater in the cold Milan rain was such a huge pain in the a$$ when hauling around all this gorgeous vintage.

The smell of fresh paint greeted us @ the theater, all the burnt-out bulbs had been replaced, and garlands of red roses were hanging over the central Palco reale (the prestigious President’s Box), where sat Italian President Giorgio Napolitano, with the premiers from Austria, Germany, Qatar, and Greece...among others). There were cameras throughout the auditorium, as the show was being broadcast live via Italian Classica channel, and on the French ARTE channel.

A few minutes after 5’o clock, applause for the five heads of state in the central Palco reale, as Italian president Giorgio Napolitano entered. The lights went down, and then an announcement (in Italian, natch) that requested a moment of silence for a Fiat workers who had died the day before in Torino at the German steelmaker plant ThyssenKrupp. [«La direzione, gli artisti, gli ospiti e i lavoratori del teatro invitano a un minuto di silenzio in commemorazione del grave incidente sul lavoro avvenuto a Torino».]

Everyone stood and kept silent, as we shifted around our clutches. Then a final Grazie to mark the end of the silence, and Barenboim took to the podium in all black: a black button down shirt, black jacket, and black pants. Can’t this man wear a freaking frak for once? White tie it's where it's at. This is la Scala. Then Big B raised his magic wand and led the orchestra in the national anthem.

Applause and show time:

The overture began, showcasing Barenboim’s thorough understanding and embrace of Wagner, washing the audience in the most gorgeous strains of orchestral brilliance. Act I's curtain rose on a very dark and misty stage, Tristan’s ship. Slowly a weak light strengthened, and revealed a stone wall background with a cutaway arch. The arch framed a high platform about the size of a tennis court, where all the action took place, which was nice because it pushed everything to the center of the stage for those @ the theater with not-so-central seats. Luggage, wooden boxes, and steamer trunks were stationed all over the floor, and our Isolde, Waltraud Meier, was crouched in a large, sunken section in the middle. Costumière Moidele Bickel had dressed Meier in a long black jacket of fine wool, with a black silk slip beneath. A long, dirty blond wig covered her normally short reddish, brownish wavyish ‘do. Out came her maid, Brangäne, sung by Michelle De Young, who was equally drab in a long grayish, blue jacket with a matching dress underneath, and a white blond bun pulled behind her head.

The excellent Scala chorus appeared, a mixture of men in port-appropriate clothes, suspenders and lots of pirate caps, and some shirtless, but not like in a hot way. They were also clothed in all grays and blues, gritty, a very smoky palette. Then we hear Kurwenal, Gerd Grochowski, and were pleased. But not with his Dragonballz blond wig. Ew. He was also in a rubbery-looking motorcycle suit, with a gray trench coat too, of course. Tristan's Ian Storey was equally given a long gray trench coat. Brangäne and Isolde had a nice convincing dynamic. Meier was off to a great start in Act I, and I was expecting worse. The dirty-blond extensions worked for her, and she had a great stage presence. After Meier drank, she was wrapped in a red coat, which brought a nice burst of color to the drab stage and scenery. Patrice Chéreau’s overall direction didn’t really work for OC. It came across as totally generic for that minimalist thing. It was just too shallow held against Barenboim’s creamy and full conducting, and was a bad match. With Act I over, the crowds loved it, and answered to the curtain call with feet-stomping and screams of bravi all around.

The first intermission came at 6:30 pm, and OC was gifted with a headache, which was expected. The break was a very long 45 minutes, and Act II began at 7:15 pm. The curtain rose again to gloominess and darkness, another stone wall, blue light coming into the scene from the right, and a few cutouts. König Marke’s castle. I had thought that Act I was barely visible, but this was ridiculous yay. After 45 minutes of intermission, I was expecting um, something more. This act was really terribly boring and lame. Everyone around me seemed to be snoozing, and I can’t honestly deny that I didn’t drift off a few times. Brangäne was in the same costume as Act I, and Meier again in a red robe, very boxy and large. I wasn’t crazy about Ian Storey, which didn’t bring the impression I was searching for. The dynamic between Storey and Meier went well enough, but Meier’s singing took a nosedive, and was barely sustainable.

After their big duet, the back of the castle splits apart, and yay, it’s finally daylight. Two giant pine trees and some better lighting make the action turn a bit more exciting, and my eyes can at last make-out something colorful on the stage. The fight between Melot and Tristan was vary cool, with a very shaolin warrior feel to it with everyone holding long sticks. The second pause came at 8:30 pm, and again lasted for 45 minutes.

At 9:15 pm, we sat for the final installation of Triscuits & Iced Tea. There was insane applause this time when The Big B stepped up to the podium. It was thrilling. Everyone was excited for the prelude, especially OC after suffering through Act II. Which was off the hook. Oh noes, the curtain rose again on that same brick wall. Ugh. This time we had some stairs on the left and a big bed on the right (well, a concrete slab) where Tristan was laying, to represent the castle @ Kareol.

Then Tristan dies, crawling around the stairs, blood all over...Melot dies, and Kurwenal says bi. Meier is singing her butt off, and OC’s mild headache has turned into a throbbing hummingbird. Then Isolde dies, blood on her temple, and it’s over, and it’s 10:30 pm. Dang. Followed ten minutes of applause for the curtain call, and tons of flowers raining down on the stage, singers included.

At the end of the night, we just weren’t impressed with Storey’s Tristan. He saved his a$$ in Act III, but was overall a downer. Meier was much better than expected, and excluding her Act II blow-out, we were happy to have her singing Isolde. Barenboim led the orchestra on a gorgeous Wagner quest that made us not hate his composition a little bit less, although we always truly hate the playa.

Corriere della Sera annually does a special 20-ish-page supplement in their December 7th newspaper (screen shots -- not production stills -- below), which includes interviews, production shots, special advertisements, and the T&I libretto. You can find the link for the December 7, 2007 pdf download here. Enjoy~

Boulez's Last Hurrah: Janacek's House of the Dead Conquers Vienna

Thirty-one years after their historic Ring in Bayreuth, Pierre Boulez and Patrice Chéreau have been reunited by another smashing success, Leos Janacek's last opera, they Syberian horror story that is From the House of the Dead, in Vienna (at the Festwochen). Standing ovations galore and great, great reviews in the Austrian press (esp Kurier and Die Presse). Sadly, it will be 82-year-old Boulez's last hurrah as opera conductor, because he wants to concentrate on composing. He will occasionally conduct symphonic works, but operas consume way too much time -- three or four months of work -- for the maestro.

We will admire the same production next year at la Scala (it's a co-production with la Scala, Aix-en-Provence, the Met and obviously the Wiener Festwochen).

A Boulez/Chereau interview on Orf is here.