Live from the Met: Eugene Onegin with Netrebko and Mattei

Credit: Metropolitan Opera

I rarely see opera cinema broadcasts because the purist in me believes nothing quite emulates the live experience and I end up stewing with irrational jealousy that I am not present in person. But there are certain operas and singers that encourage me to discard such snobbisms. The combination of Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin, one of my favourite operas and Anna Netrebko’s Tatiana inspired such a cinematic trip.

First of all we must mention an absence sorely felt onstage; Dmitri Hvorostovsky, who was to perform the role of Onegin, has temporarily retreated yet again from the stage as he continues his battle with illness. Onegin is a role fortuitously interwoven with his starry career; his showing opposite Renee Fleming is widely considered one of the definitive interpretations of the difficult role and it was again as the diffident Eugene that he graced the Covent Garden stage for his first London appearance post-diagnosis. Such is his deep mastery of the character and unique velvet-coated-iron voice that mere mention of him coaxed a scattered applause from the cinema audience. Dima, get well soon and return once more to the frost-ridden dawn!

The opera may be named after the St Petersburg cad but make no mistake, such is Tchaikovsky’s adoration of the pensive Tatiana that it is difficult to stage any production which provides more than a cursory understanding of the titular Byronic character (curiously, the preceding minimalist Met Opera production achieved this remarkably well). Tchaikovsky declared himself madly in love with Tatiana during the opera’s creation, and it is upon her (and the idealist Lensky) that he bestows his most lyrical arias. This is the template of both score and libretto – and with Anna Netrebko, perhaps the single most charismatic soprano alive, as the older Larina daughter, Tatiana is inevitably the opera’s pulsating core.

And how marvellous she is! Suspend the disbelief that, under the unforgiving glare of HD cinema, our Tatiana is a few springs over seventeen. Forget the annoyance that she writes her doomed lovesick missive in a conservatory, a clunky and unimaginative space. Luxuriate instead in her intense charisma, the changeling dark eyes, the dark timbre hinting at otherworldly wonder when she soars to the episodic refrains the letter scene aria. Her Tatiana is less knowing than some others. Unusually, against the flow of modern interpretation, Tatiana’s Act One appearance is not tainted by pensive melancholy. Rather, this Tatiana looks to tomorrow with optimism and is congenial, if a little shy. Under this filter, we too experience the confused flush of this early Tatiana – the sudden rush of impulse of adolescent adoration, the gawkish shyness and agonising over social failings. Netrebko also succeeds in drawing to the forefront musical interchanges that can be lost; I have never found Tatiana’s exchanges with her nurse (Diadkova) that bookend the letter scene particularly illuminating, but she draws out the adolescence of the girl’s curiosity and the dearth of romantic fulfilment that surrounds her.

Special mention must be made of the letter scene, a self-contained ten-minute exploration of adolescent yearning. It is symbolic of the entire opera; seemingly placid and uncomplicated (if strong) emotions on the surface which are contained by a crust of reserve under which churns a torrent of bated afflictions. Netrebko, alone and exposed, is bigger than both stage and life. She recognises that the power of the aria lies in its arc, both vocal and theatrical, and captures both ecstasy and pain in the same descending scale (“Вообрази: я здесь одна, Никто меня не понимает” / Remember, I am here all alone! Nobody understands me”). Netrebko was not perfect (still retaining that life-long intonation problem including a tendency to be sharp) but she was magnificent.

Our second replacement Onegin was Peter Mattei (taking over from Mariusz Kwiecien, who sang the opening nights of this run). Theatrically, he is pure and his grave deportment successfully drew clean characterisations opposite Dolgov’s fidgety Lensky. If this Onegin appears of little incidence opposite a powerful Tatiana, it is hardly his fault, such is Netrebko’s vocal fortitude. But he was hampered in other regards; his tone, though pleasingly stately, has introvert tendencies. This worked handsomely for his Act One closing aria of paternalistic condescension, but left the final duet rather flat and lacking power. And, in a completely personal gripe, he committed that cardinal tenor sin of falling dramatic to his knees and pounding the earth under the apparent romantic agony.

The rest of the Russian cast was largely well-balanced. As Lensky, Alexei Dolgov was invigorated, if not entirely lyrical and slightly reedy, presenting an affectingly pathetic and earnest character. Elena Maximova’s flighty Olga made the most of a limited role. Our Gremin, one of the great bass operatic roles, was curiously baby-faced and lacked the grizzled gravitas of the soldier that ought to draw effective comparison to the dark Onegin.

This is the second outing for the Met’s new production, and it does not seem to improve upon revival. The pageantry interrupting the peasant chorus sits ill with the mournful weariness of the folk song, the dancers cluttering an already fussy space. The sets, the work of Tom Pye, are disconnected, with the near-abstraction of the final Act meshing oddly with the homely reality that preceded it. In the final scene, with repressed emotions laid bare across the bleak Russian landscape, it is in the unmatched realism of Netrebko’s Tatiana that we take wing, with or without Onegin.

Onegin with the Wiener Staatsballett

Credit: Wiener Staatsoper

On a short break where I spent most of my time tearfully fawning over various classical giants (I like to think that the tears were a by-product of the amount of champagne I consumed daily, but I might just be that uselessly maudlin), I don’t think I would have been able to forgive myself if I went all the way to Vienna without spending at least a few hours rhapsodising at the Wiener Staatsoper. I resolutely refused to see the production of Werther with a baritone Werther (seriously, stop that right now), so my rapturously blonde Viennese friend booked tickets to the ballet and off we went in search of the proud Onegin.

I have seen Cranko’s ballet a worrisome amount of times in London, all with exemplary casts who are amongst the best in the world. Thiago Soares remains the finest Onegin I have encountered and Natalia Osipova’s role debut two years ago as Tatiana was enough to leave goosepimples for a week. I know each solo variation and anguished step of every pas de deux so well that I was probably amongst the toughest critics in the house.

When Cranko’s balletic interpretation of Onegin was finally staged in Russia in 2013, nearly fifty years after its creation, it was met with a general sense of indulgent amusement. Pushkin’s poetic epic is engrained into the national subconscious in ways that we can’t even begin to fathom; Tatiana is a national icon of strength and every Russian schoolchild knows a few stanzas by heart. Cranko, a South African upstart, took liberties with the plot and characterisation and the rather piecemeal Tchaikovsky score inspired mirth in some quarters. Yet, the novel remains at the ballet’s core and every interpreter, regardless of balletic or operatic manifestation, should endeavour to remember Pushkin’s core lessons.

This was not entirely prudently done by the Staatsballett. Here are a few key examples.

First, in Tatiana and Onegin’s first pas de deux in the garden, Onegin should lift Tatiana up in a stationary lift, place her gently down and then look away. It signals his engrained society mannerisms against his underlying indifference, the stark contrast to Lensky’s country exuberance mere minutes ago. The timing of the turn of the head should convey not callousness but danger. Our Onegin on the night (Roman Lazik) turned before Tatiana had touched the ground.

Second, Pushkin’s Lensky is no hot-headed fool. Pushkin writes him as a scholar of German Idealism – not quite Kantian, his heroes are Goethe and Schiller. He pursues his Romantic Ideals not thoughtlessly, but with the joy and languor of youth with purpose and vision. This ardency was absent from Davide Dato’s interpretation of the doomed poet – Dato appeared onstage with such bounding, compact energy, he seemed focussed on technical prowess than gentility. Under his awkward stewardship, Lensky became a caricature of the youth who died for Romanticism – he was sulky, small-minded and impetuous, hardly a foil to Onegin’s Byronic self. When he was felled during the duel, it was with an exasperating sense of happenstence, rather than a boyish defence of the ideals on which he has crafted his entire existence.

Thirdly, the entire core of the story’s conclusion was lost in one single moment, even before the final meeting between our two leads. The curtain rises on Act Three several years after the duel and away from small country society. We are in St Petersburg, amongst grand dames and Princes. In comes Onegin, eyed with scepticism by his peers. His years of travel, a self-imposed exile, have changed him from the easy-going young dandy whose company they once enjoyed. Then enters Tatiana and Prince Gremin, her elderly husband. They dance the gentlest pas de deux, yearning but tempered. Onegin is shaken badly:

``Can it be she?'' Eugene in wonder

     demanded. ``Yes, she looks... And yet...

     from deepest backwood, furthest under...''

     And every minute his lorgnette

     stays fixed and focused on a vision

     which has recalled, without precision,

     forgotten features. ``Can you say,

     prince, who in that dark-red béret,

     just there, is talking to the Spanish

     ambassador?'' In some surprise

     the prince looks at him, and replies:

     ``Wait, I'll present you -- but you banish

     yourself too long from social life.''

     ``But tell me who she is.'' ``My wife.''

    

     ``You're married? No idea whatever...

     Since when is this?'' ``Two years or more.''

     ``To...?'' ``Larina.'' ``Tatyana? never!''

     ``She knows you?'' ``Why, we lived next door.''

     So to his wife for presentation

     the prince bring up his own relation

     and friend Evgeny. The princess

     gazes at him... and nonetheless,

     however much her soul has faltered,

     however strongly she has been

     moved and surprised, she stays serene,

     and nothing in her look is altered:

     her manner is no less contained;

     her bow, as calm and as restrained.

It follows that the whole story is crippled and loses its force if Tatiana run offstage in tears upon meeting her former idol. This profligacy is not Cranko’s, but the dancer’s. Perhaps nothing I see this year will irritate me this much. The reason Tatiana is a Russian icon is for her resilience and strength, for her knowledge of oneself. This single act of fleeing unnerves because it renders the sacrifice she makes completely redundant – Pushkin’s Tatiana ultimately spurns Onegin not so much for society, but also for herself.

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These are, of course, the gripes of someone who has spent too many hours with Pushkin. There was much to admire in the dancing, regardless of such inconsistencies. Yakovleva’s acting as Tatiana was crystalline and projected well throughout – in particular, her Act Two ball variation was wonderfully executed, those great leaps containing all the desperation of a spurned young girl. The nuances she noted with the final pas de deux were superb; for instance, when she lands flat footed from his lifts, it is clear that, in her heart, she has already rejected him. Tcacencoa’s Gremin showed some very able partnering in the Act Three pas de deux, which he paced regally; I would go as far to say that it was the most enjoyable part of the evening Yet, I question the choice of Onegin – Lazik is both physically and emotionally too slight for the role. He struggled immensely with the famous ‘bum lifts’ in the mirror pas de deux and he has none of Onegin’s manifest cruelty. Onegin is not malicious, but he is cold – but when interpreted by Lazik, it is difficult to draw a coherent narrative between the Onegin first arrived at the Larina’s estate, with the tormented suitor at the end. We finish without knowing his story – does Lazik envisage him a cad who learns how to feel too late? Or a dangerously haunted individual? What about a man of true merit that has been marred by societal temptation? The lack of narrative finesse is unfortunate.

I was however hugely impressed with the corps de ballet of the Staatsballett, who do everything with great unison, as most evident in the Act Three polonaise, which is too often scrappy and lethargic. There is a Slavic lilt to the company that manifests pleasingly across this Russian tale. An imbalanced evening it may have been, but one well worth experiencing.

A Definitive 'Onegin' with Marianela Nunez and Thiago Soares

Before the opening night of the Royal Ballet's 'Onegin', the assembled audience - largely comprised of Covent Garden regulars - were abuzz for two main reasons; the reunification of husband-wife couple Thiago Soares and Marianela Nunez on stage for the first time this season and for the imperious young talent Vadim Muntagirov's debut as Lensky. Both would go on to reward the crowd handsomely for their interest.

On the face of it, Cranko's adaption of the Russian epic is not immediately gripping. Despite several beautifully flowing pas des deux and a remarkable production replete with whimsical sets and a Slavic grandeur, the lack of choreographed vulnerability to any character but Tatyana has the potential to leave the audience a little cold. Moreover, despite a well-chosen Tchaikovsky score, only the music for the mirror and final pas de deux are truly arresting, with several climatic passages failing to rouse - the unfortunate arrangement of the Lensky's Act 2 solo orchestration remains a point of personal displeasure for me. Thus, much depends on the cast's interpretation of their bare tools, more so than many other ballets. 

What then of our eponymous anti-hero? Thiago Soares has played the mercurial noble many times to much acclaim - it is a role he portrays perhaps better than most, if not all, in the world. His very appearance is striking as that of the brooding figure who captures the young Tatyana's fancy as if straight from the realms of folklore. His look is strong and greatly mysterious and his manner imperious and rather abrupt. Such is his comfort that both of his solos were executed with breathtaking - almost flippant - ease. There is a self-contained poise about his Onegin that truly befits this shadowy character; the original poem contains scarce insight into his character other than what the wide-eyed, breathless Tatyana bequeaths of him. In his Act 1 solo, the exacting and domineering presence he exudes and he spins again and again exactly matches the nervous flutter of Tatyana in the wings, scared to meet his gaze. Indeed, it is not until Act 3, where she has become an elegant and less fanciful young woman that we truly get a glimpse of insight into his character; his utter surprise and pain at her transformation was very real.

Nunez is, in every role, a generously supple and achingly tender dancer - her technique is so secure that it is now very much taken for granted and rarely commented upon. Her Tatyana was crafted from the softest, most silken cloth. With an honest, open face and naturally sunny disposition, it is this kind of role in which she truly soars; as a Manon, she is too kind, as a Kitri, she is too structured. Tatyana, however, fits her like a dream. In Act 1, she shone and quivered as a pale slip of a young girl, only now unfurling to the world. It was truly quite remarkable; she was luminous, intoxicated by newfound desires and dreams. On the whole, it was an extremely naturalistic rendition from Nunez - in a role easily tempted by histrionics, she was acutely beatific. The mirror pas de deux passed by in one languorous simultaneous flow, as silken and trance-like as a real dream, hushed by a young girl's awe. And when she awakens from the secretive dreamworld, no actions are needed by Nunez to express the pivotally profound effect this experience has wrought upon her - all that is needed are her lustrous eyes and flushed skin staring out.

This delectable sense of a reverie that pervaded the first two acts make the third all the more striking. A key point of Pushkin's poem was the unassailable interchange between fiction and life, the boundaries of which are often blurred in Tatyana's dreamy mind. We see this onstage with Onegin's unexplained nature and mystery, with the often dark and indistinct backdrops, the picture-perfect poises of the corps de ballet, who stay perfectly still behind the 'E.O' monogrammed mesh, waiting for a chapter to begin before they whirl into a stately ball waltz. Even the death of Lensky, who falls silently and poetically is somewhat demure. Yet, in Act 3, this is abandoned. Years have passed, and Tatyana has matured. She arrives on the arm of her husband (Ryoichi Hirano as Prince Gremin - so wonderfully stately and the antithesis to Onegin) and is resplendent as the adored princess - yet we see restrain and reserve about her that was so markedly absent in her adolescence. When she spies Onegin, who is profoundly shaken by her transformation, she displays intelligence in maintaining social courtesy and turning away to devote her attention to her husband, who is gracious and has treated her well. Yet, alone, she holds the remnants of the letter her tremulous self once wrote him and is greatly disturbed. Here, Tatyana and Onegin meet for the first time as mental equals. The result is thoroughly breathtaking; the final pas de deux is complex and transforming in the depths of its sorrow and repent. Yet despite the highly charged setting, there is no impetuosity in their movements - rather, Nunez's arms seem to fleetingly cradle Soares to her chest in a burst of unassailable longing before sadly releasing him. Soares' Onegin is desperate and bitterly repentant - he now sees the unmistakable virtue of the girl, but his own actions have removed her forever. Tatyana's youthful dreams of romance have ended and the two must part in the thrust of reality.

Nunez and Soares

As strong as the unbreakable bond and understanding between the two artists is, it is only amplified and augmented by the audience. The Royal Opera House is a peculiar place of tradition and reward; Nunez's services and complete devotion to Covent Garden is a point of pride - she is the prodigal, shining daughter and following the exits of Rojo and Cojocaru, the undisputed sweetheart, the one that embodies the Royal Ballet like no other. It is hard to overstate the depth of their love for Marianela Nunez; even starry additions to the principal roster have not dampened their interest. Where others can stun the audience into a frenzy and inspire awe, the tenderness that Nunez exudes has a poignancy that only the Covent Garden crowd can understand. Such a naturalistic, honest portrayal might not work in other houses, but here, its power is indescribable. The ovation she and Soares received upon their repeated curtain calls was well earned and honestly deserved - a real show of adoration for a remarkable artist.

The other remarkable performance of the night belonged to Muntagirov's Lensky, who made a most successful debut. He seems to come from the school of pure romance - every extension and line of his body has a noble mien, and there is a softness to the great elasticity of his leaps that commands attention. While his Act 1 solo perhaps lacked the charm that comes with experience in the role, his Act 2 passage of sorrow and disillusionment was a thing of pure beauty. His aching long limbs, boyish countenance and transparency provided the perfect foil to Soares' arrogance - he, more than anyone else, played into Cranko's vision of Tatyana's storybook romance.