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.

Die Meistersinger: Holten departs with soaring (and pointed) triumph

Holten & Co on opening night

It was the rapturous success of Kasper Holten's Copenhagen staging of Wagner's Ring Cycle that propelled him to the helm of Covent Garden in 2011. It is thus a neat and rather sardonic bookend that Wagner again provides his swan-song with the company, in the form of Die Meistersinger von Nurnberg, the classic exposition of living art triumphing over the academic. 

A bold farewell, it was rewarded and garlanded in every way that Hans Sachs - and indeed Wagner -  holds in high esteem.

Kunst! Wahn! Liebe! This is Holten's Meistersinger in more ways than one; this is the twitch of the thread designed to draw all fractures from his short tenure to that orphic conclusion to which Hans Sachs also guides the blind, structured and obstinate. Music is the solace and the escape. Politics, tradition and the insular have no command here - here, we draw in broadstrokes, where power lords over finesse.

Terfel's Hans Sachs is a creation of immense control and beauty. More importantly, he is entirely human. Under Holten's direction, he does not embody the martyred wisdom many directors seem to interpret as divinely Schopenhauer. His renunciation of courting Eva is not as beatific as it is wry and Walther's song does not so much affirm his belief in kunst as it perplexes him. He too journeys to reject form and the apotheosis of reason through the three act behemoth; a realisation most delicately shaped by Terfel, who never mistakes pathos for sentiment. The famous Act 3 quintet, the emotional heart of Die Meistersinger, touches precisely because the conclusion is not glorious and inevitable. This Hans Sachs is no saint and his renunciation of wille to overcome madness (Wahn! Wahn!) is not so much an adherence to an overarching philosophy as it is an acquiescence to the system of things and exigencies of life. Rather than simply changing the two lovers and popular opinion, Holten places Sachs' own demons on the frontline, with the famous Act 2 brawl of tempered madness seemingly drawn out of his subconscious, with a cloven-hoofed Nightwatchman standing silently sentinel. Terfel's Sachs is a creature of the era as opposed to the wizened overlord, an interpretation which ties in with the maniacal dogma that colours Sachs' closing aria; a uniquely nationalist defence of German aesthetics.

Willis-Sorensen's Eva is also unpredictable. There is a pervading sense that she would accept the cobbler, and her love for Walther is neither final nor exact. This Eva doesn't undertake a transformation; or if she does, it is internalised. She is modern in the way Eva normally is not and her indignant departure at the end, renouncing Sachs' grand orchestration of events is entirely political and devoid of romantic sensibility.

Here, Holten's staging achieves curious genius. The seed has been sown; Hans Sachs is unsaintly and Eva is unsure. Holten overcomes the barbed and problematic closing section by not appeasing at all - he revels in the extremity of the Meistersinger's national pride with macabre and glee that warns uncomfortably at the geopolitical reality of current times. In this production, Sachs' loving and guiding influence does not result in a happy German union. Rather, though touched by supreme song flouting the rigidity of academic reason, Sachs falters at the final barrier by choosing to channel this euphoria towards collective sentiment. What he achieves is hysteria, pride and arrogance to which Eva, the most modern of all constituents, blanches. She has also been touched the Meisterlied and emerges changed - but, impervious to tradition, she understands at last the unfailing ways of the guild and man and chooses to flee. It is subtly done, but this addition is rather remarkable.

Vocally, the depth of the cast is staggering. Terfel's vocal ability remains unchallenged, but nearly stealing the plaudits is Kranzle's Beckmesser, that long abused creature. Surely absurd, even hateful, his song nevertheless retains majesty beneath its comic trills. Onstage, his presence is unmatched. But there is gravitas to every member of the guild and I have scarcely, if ever, heard a cast of this magnitude which is so equally matched and united in vocal fortitude. Another delectable surprise is the affinity Pappano seems to have suddenly developed for Wagnerian repertoire, in which he has rarely achieved such authority and wit as that eked out of the orchestra on Saturday evening. It is a monstrous task to pace the Act 3 just right, so the climatic quintet wrenches as excruciatingly as it did.

The only place where energy perhaps flagged was the odd gloom inspired by the set for Act 3, Scene 1, set backstage at the festival pageant. This setting did not conjoin easily with the abstract concept preceding it, a versatile mahogany set, oppressive and austere with occasional glimpses of art deco elegance (but might it be possible to reduce to clinking of cutlery during Act 1?) We do away with the church, the street outside Sachs' abode for this delirium inducing ode to rigour, with pleasing effect. No doubt, the traditionalists will rail and rage as the Guild themselves are wont to do (indeed, as I type, the first broadsheet review is out and predictably miffed) but if you read it as I do, and love it as I did, this tension is the lifeblood of Holten's greatest creation at Covent Garden to date.

Kasper, we shall be sorry to see you go!

Opolais Revels as Madama Butterfly

(Written March 2015)

Credit: ROH

On the opening night of the Royal Opera's Madama Butterfly, I entered the amphitheatre to find the occupants to my immediate right already in place - a dear elderly couple, aged ninety, dressed very smartly, hands folded atop their canes. After squeezing past, the gentleman immediately said; "Good evening. Have you seen the opera before?"

It soon transpired that he was quite the Puccini enthusiast, a lifelong devotee to the art of opera. It was with bright enthusiasm that he regaled recollected stories from decades ago, of starry sopranos and majestic nights.

"Puccini is, to the utmost, incomparable," he mused, with great sincerity. "When it is sung just right, everything just flows - a beautiful string of silver with no beginning and no end. From the first note of the love duet - just that one note alone! - I fall, completely."

"It seems to take so little for Puccini to create magic," I agreed, having recently been changed by an affecting Il Trittico. 

"Magic!" he cried. "Magic! Now there's the word."

His fervency seemed to set the tone for the evening. I had initially come with relatively low expectations. Madama Butterfly was the spectacle for the first opera I ever attended - at the age of seven in the local Caird Hall, with a company hailing from a rather obscure part of Eastern Europe. Being altogether too young, I was ecstatic when Cio-Cio san finally copped it. Since that first encounter, Butterfly has failed to become more endearing; I often find it a capricious creation. The plot is simple, and Puccini's orchestration at his luscious best - a real lesson in tranquility and inner strength, with a dash of humour thrown in at surprising points. Yet, the characters frustrate; Pinkerton's insincerity is all too evident from the outset, that it becomes almost impossible to identify with Butterfly's love - at points, you simply desire to shake her hard, when she descends into histrionics over such an unworthy idol. Played with the slightest wrong nuance, the entire heart of the tale - a heart crafted of resilience, belief and hope - is inextricably lost.

There is no such fear with the Royal Opera's cast. Opolais' Butterfly is, possibly, the finest performance at the Royal Opera House this season. A tall woman with a powerful voice, Opolais showed remarkable control to thin her tone, particularly in Act I, to convey the winsome child. The task of portraying a fifteen year old girl, from a culture of great reserve and tradition, has always been a difficult one. Opolais showed her vocal power last season as Manon Lescaut; this time, she gave a sustained smooth tone, as shimmering and as breakable as gossamer, that still carried great resonance along with its purity. Upon her first appearance onstage, and introducing herself to Sharpless, Opolais' Butterfly is unapologetic and guilelessly frank. She becomes an eccentric child, one who seems, with her spontaneity and brightly unquenchable spark, slightly removed from the world around her - a dreamer ascending to the 'house made of air' on the hilltop. Rather than a mere slip of a child, giddy for marriage and security, under Opolais' guidance she takes on new meaning. While some may think this approach lacks the power, it ought to be remembered that this isn't some great Italianate tale of woe and misfortune. Butterfly's charm lies not in her passion, but in her femininity. Puccini endows her with dozens of lilting passages, stark in their simplicity - merely one reedy voice soaring out alone. When she turns to Jagde's Pinkerton at the beginning of 'Vogliateme bene', and entreats him to 'love her a little' it was so saturated with need and adoration that it takes the breath away.

The final two acts showcased a Butterfly unlike any other I have seen before. I state the triumvirate again - resilience, belief and hope - that is the making of the finest Butterflies. It is too lofty an aim to treat it as a great paragon of love or devotion; he is a fool and she is blind (and only fifteen). But Puccini wins when this unsavoury setup ceases to matter. He triumphs in the strength of her gaze, tempered by resolution not shrill adoration; he lives on the wings of Opolais' indignation, not doubt, when she utters in that terrible way; 'Ah! m'ha scordata? / Ah! Has he forgotten me?'. Opolais reduces us to tears precisely because her Butterfly walks on the side of Triumph; buffered by eccentricity, led by perceived kindness, her supposed misfortune and abandonment does not burden her. And, for that reason, Puccini's orchestration thrives - it is freed from the forerunner of tragedy and the apotheosis of reason.

To all Butterflies who march dutifully to the drum of Melancholy; observe Opolais and understand that a girl who gave her heart to faith could not have lived thus!

Veritably Verismo: Cavalleria Rusticana & Pagliacci

Simply put, Damiano Michieletto's new production of opera's most beloved double bill is superb. Set in a dusty and slightly impoverished South Italian town in the 1980s, Michieletto's set is 'verismo' in its truest sense; it accentuates the grittiness of Mascagni's score in particular and, amongst the unadorned and ungilded, the toxic cesspool of human emotions that forms the core of both operas is permitted to explode in the melodramatic and sensual way we have come to expect. I found myself recalling the vulgar, beautiful and wounded Italian youth 'Gino'* amongst the San Gimignano hills, untaught and untamed, driven only by brutish instinct. Michieletto's presentation has such an effect; the muted palette of greys and browns only serves to accentuate the wild lushness of the orchestration and the mounting delirium. The linking of the two operas through the production (with characters overlapping in both interludes) is not novel, but it is neatly and seamlessly incorporated, serving an interesting outlook on idiosyncratically human troubles. It is thus with no small degree of resentment that I think of opening night reports of boos from a section of audience who have not yet soothed their affronted feathers at Michieletto's Guillaume Tell. Not only does it show horrid disrespect to the artists currently onstage, it also belies the petty small-mindedness of a certain faction of the Covent Garden crowd who seem to desire the same tyrannical power as La Scala's loggionisti; how one could muster the energy to surface old grudges after such a sublime double bill is quite beyond my reckoning. As for Guillaume Tell itself, it suffices to say that I thought it the finest ensemble production and performance of the rather disappointing 2014/15 season. 

As Santuzza, Eva Maria Westbroek delivered what was unanimously declared as the performance of the evening. Although her range seems to now waiver towards mezzo, her Santuzza was delectable; at once indignant and wretched. Westbroek inhabited the role in a way that we have come to expect (her final act Maddalena was bright spot in an otherwise tepid Andrea Chenier) but vocally she has grown exponentially. Gone is the strain and harshness that used to envelope her phrases; here, she opens her voice to an alluringly bright tone that penetrates the deepest corners of the hall. As with the other characters of this goldfish bowl view of Italian life, Santuzza is virilely majestic in her impetuosity; Westbroek conveys this profoundly, in a particularly startling choreographed passage where the wax figure of the Virgin Mary, carried aloft a baying crowd in the Easter procession seemingly comes alive and berates Santuzza for her sins. 

Her Santuzza had a match in Elena Zilio's Mamma Lucia, a magpie figure of matronly affection. Aleksandres Antonenko's Turiddu gave an admirable effort but I perhaps question the limits of his capacity for verismo opera; his tone, while beguilingly in its own way, is not quite full and is at danger of being too self-restrained. With the effervescent Tony Pappano coaxing the best sounds out of the orchestra that I have for long time from the pit below, the audience long to be swept away by an indescribable plethora of bloody colours, to hear the roar from the stage coincide the rising tempers. As Turiddu, he fell slightly short of such euphoria. But ultimately, it mattered very little; being the jewel that it is, Cavalleria Rusticana is an easy charmer. It benefits from having no 'central' number such as Vesti la giubba - after which everything and anything appears necessarily anti-climatic. There is no wasted exchanges, no 'filler' moments; everything flows, simple yet riveting.

Pagliacci had more shortcomings; though they were widely casting issues. Carmen Giannattasio I unfortunately failed to warm to; her Nedda had a barren and desiccant quality, oscillating uncomfortably from vulnerable to cruel to wanton. The contrast with Westbroek before her was illustrative; neither characters are truly sympathetic, but we lived Santuzza's despair, whereas Nedda's  was disconnected. Antonenko gave a much improved turn as Canio; aside from slightly pre-empting his entries in vesti la giubba, there was a real maniacal edge to his performance and his final breakdown (no, Pagliaccio non son) was petrifyingly electric, laid bare on a converted gym hall stage. Tonio (Dimitri Platanias) was invigorating, if slightly unremarkable, and Dionysios Sourbis' Silvio was a pleasant surprise, adding weight and pathos to the role. 

Yet, there was much to admire in the staging, which was more adventurous than Cavalleria Rusticana. There was something perversely gripping about the school gym / village hall set up that seemed to grasp the bleakness of the drama. The faint ridiculousness that this great, sordid story is unravelling amidst monkey bars and school assembly rooms only accentuates the sense of voyeurism that pervades the opera, further knowingly directed at the end when Tonio, speaking to the real life, not stage, audience, declares with twisted triumph "the comedy is finished!" and we realise that it is in our faces that the lights are directed.  In the pit, Pappano continued his wonderful work, finding joy and voice in one of opera's most ravishing scores, truly embodying every ounce of Italianate blood within him. He, together with Michieletto and Westbroek, are the makings of these alluring new productions.

* E.M Foster's Where Angels Fear to Tread

'La Boheme' with Netrebko and Calleja

This run of La Boheme marks the final time Copely's handsomely dishevelled production graces the Covent Garden stage before it is retired for good. In a protracted farewell, this final cast is one of starry quality, headed by the elusive Anna Netrebko and Joseph Calleja.

It would be a while before the warm lushness of Puccini's most indulgent score penetrated the chill of the Parisian garrett. An odd sense of displacement interrupted the famous first act. Full of sparkling little jokes, shining like gems, the ponderous disconnect between stage and pit produced a ragged tempo which tampers most disconcertingly with Puccini. In La Boheme, where the orchestration is organic, mimicking the nuances and rises of speech, such liberal conducting is prone to elongate already extended passages, creating a general sense of sluggishness. Part of the fault must be chalked up to brief rehearsals; it was most apparent in Che gelida manina and O soave fanciulla that conductor and singer struggled to anticipate the other. Ettinger must refrain from waiting for the singer a guide them instead; the greatest vice that can befall a Puccini opera is over-indulgence - it can become unbearable in its saturation. I do not doubt that this fault that will dissipate over the run. 

Even working with such drawbacks, the quality of the cast cannot be overlooked. Beyond his overcooked Act 1 aria, Calleja was in good voice, clear and penetrating, although he must learn to connect more with the production. However, the making of the evening, as ever in La Boheme, lay with our Mimi, where Netrebko brought lustre and charm, if not quite the weight of believability. Yet, one must put their qualms about Netrebko's vocal suitability to one side and forget it outright, for it is inevitable. Any person who considers themselves to have any ounce of operatic knowledge will know that this magnificent singer has, in recent years, openly embraced the full thickness of her voice. She has traversed far and wide, Iolanta once minute, Lady Macbeth the next; she has already left the days where she could thin her voice to match Mimi's gentle tone far behind. Yet, there is still much to enjoy in her Mimi, even in the absence of youthful incandescence. Her voice remains hugely expressive, now endowed with both volume and gravitas. Her Mimi in Act 3 was a thing of great majesty; it is with eager ears and glad heart that Covent Garden welcomes her return and I can only hope that her next sojourn in London enables her to showcase her newfound tone to its most devastating effect. 

It may be said, however, that the most enchanting performance of the night lay with the other three occupants of the bohemian attic; Meachem's Marcello, Vino's Colline and Del Savio's Schaunard. When bandied together, they exuded a true sense of camaraderie, the sense of jovial warmth that brings heart and life to even the bleakest situations, a brief but captivating return to the heart of this historic production. 

'Andrea Chénier' with Jonas Kaufmann and Eva-Maria Westbroek at the Royal Opera House

A new year at the Royal Opera House hails a new production of a rarely performed opera - Umberto Giordano's Andrea Chénier, in its first Covent Garden appearance in thirty years. More hung on the opening night than imagined - in what has, so far, been an anticlimactic season for opera, with new productions of Un Ballo in Maschera and Idomeneo spectacularly failing to please.

The scene is set well enough. The curtain rises on a backdrop so opulent, so ostentatious, with every available surface slathered in gold, it is more overwhelming than aesthetically pleasing. Perhaps this is the intended effect, given the predicament of the Parisian aristocrats crowding the stage - studiously ignoring the rumblings of civilian unrest flooding the city streets. In comes our Maddalena, suitably petulant, and her mother, appropriately aggrieved. The guests flock in, all carefully attired if airy and insubstantial in pale pastels, determined to continue vapidly fluttering in their rapidly crumbling sphere of hierarchy prestige. At the edge hovers Andrea Chénier, a surly browed youth discomfited by such outrageous luxury. Teased, scolded and baited, he unfurls with righteousness - and an outpour of reproach, so affecting in its gravity and rectitude. Kaufmann's "Un dì all'azzuro spazio" was wondrous in its invigorated lament. 

And yet, for the best part of three acts, the glory of his vocal fortitude was unmatched in believability. Andrea Chenier is a character perhaps singularly affecting as the embodiment of compelled, virile youth - the child of ideals and brevity. This conviction colours his first meeting with Maddalena - she is profoundly shaken by the purity of his hope; while the sharpness of his reprimand strikes her and wounds her like a blow, affecting far deeper than any stimulant in her small gilded world. Kaufmann's Chenier is stately and self-assured, but wanting in passion. His voice is indisputably superb and unsurpassed - the torment in there is real - but he outwardly expresses no such full-bodied commitment. 

Within this drawback lies a more deep-rooted complaint about the production at large. Perhaps abashed and suffering from the criticisms plaguing most new productions at the ROH over the past year or so - notable examples being last season's Manon Lescaut and Don Giovanni - there is an air of caution that permeates the company. They tell us, on the promotional material, that this is a tale of glory! Liberty! Grand passion! Yet, nowhere is it evident. The sets are inoffensive, but lacking character - in particular, the expansive pale wood of Act 3 stripped the trial scene of much of its high tension, unfortunately denouncing it as the least gripping instalment of the tale. The orchestra play rousingly, but themselves fail to rouse the singers out of their refined shells (though Pappano tried so hard, I am told, that he nearly went through the boards in the final act). The characters are feelingly sung, but much defies emotional attachment. When Chénier and Maddalena unite in the heart of war-ridden Paris in Act 2, the climatic love scene whereupon two souls find idealistic solace in the midst of tragedy, we see not the abandon of passion that cannot be contained even in the face of danger, which precipitates their deaths. Chénier has searched blindly for a love that he has felt "brushing by him on the street", which he has chased with all the dogged determination of an artist in delirium. Yet, why does he recline on the table in such a stately and assured manner, calmly waiting for Maddalena to finish professing her sad story? Their first love duet was dispatched beautifully, but why did the audience not sigh collectively together with the crossed lovers? Why, in Act 3, does he not decry the parody of justice facing him, with the indignation and sorrow he expressed in the Contessa's drawing room, a parody which goes against his very ideals? The caution is not only his; the entire company had very much an air of 'getting the job done' rather than exuding the fiery fervour of a country overhauling its entire social regime. We are presented with Paris in the dirt, Paris in the dust, a Paris run by urchins - yet why does everything seem so orderly and undefiled? The result verges on disappointing.

Save, however, for Act 4, where something completely intangible seemed to fall into place. Call it first night teething problems, but at the bleak, cold end, Chénier and Maddalena seemed to truly reconcile for the first time. And what a stupendously wondrous effect it had! From his rousing solo "Come un bel dì di maggio" we heard what we had so long desired - profundity and conviction. A revolutionary, an idealist, an artist - the conviction, so solid and wrapped beguilingly in wistfully poetic language is manifest. Kaufmann's naturally magnetic open tone assumed profound new gravitas. The momentum continued, together with a gleeful Pappano. Westbroek's Maddalena too rose to the challenge. Their final duet, "Vicino a te" is gripping in its stark, steely grit - these lovers who walk towards death with a relieved heart and iron will are the embodiment of the liberty and passion we were promised. Their fascination of freedom extends to surpass mortal fear - they sing of death with such intensity, verging on piety, that it is darkly fascinating and truly gripping. Their end is not quite noble, but it is orphic and glorious.

Kaufmann & Westbroek curtatin call

Strauss' Salome at Chiang Kai-Shek Memorial Hall

This year being the German maestro Richard Strauss' 150th anniversary, classical music schedules around the world have been inundated in showcasing his works. Without actively seeking it out, I have enjoyed quite a bit of Strauss this year - most prominently Claus Guth's sublime production of 'Die Frau ohne Schatten' at the Royal Opera House - all of which have aided to banish torrid memories of a torturous 'Elektra' outing several years ago.

After a year wading knee-deep in London's rich musical stimulation, I found myself rather bereft on this account, spending my summer in Taipei. However, my summer residency happened to coincide with the one (one!) opera production Taipei hosts every year. A highlight of the social calendar (or so I am told) a family member took pity on my moping self and invited me to see the opening night at Chiang Kai Shek memorial hall in central Taipei. 

Admittedly, I approached the production with a great deal of apprehension. While I am far - believe me, very far - from a connoisseur of the musical arts, a large part of my operatic education has been held at Covent Garden which, I believed, left me rather spoiled. My first season had brought me the raptures of Kaufmann, Terfel, Calleja, Polenzani, Perez and Opolais and I feared that I would find fault in what in pedantic ways. I was to quickly repent of my prejudices.

Salome, a one act opera based on a biblical passage depicting the beheading of John the Baptist has a rather archaic story that requires thoughtful production and good acting to truly do both Strauss and Wilde justice. The demands of the titular role are similar to that of Turandot in both vocal and acting requirements. Both characters are distinctly rather unsympathetic - strong-willed, cruel women that require harshness to their vocal tone. Manuela Uhl, who played the role on this fine evening, was a revelation. In her first appearance, decadently draped in a crepe-like pink evening gown reminiscent of what us youngsters now carelessly refer to as the 'Gatsby-era', she stepped out in a shimmering, soft haze, as if we saw her basked in the glow of candlelight. Lovely - so, so lovely! was the thought that drifted indulgently through my mind. Her first few passages, the artful, knowing seduction of Narraboth to her bidding was saturated in a femininity most convincing. It was carefully nuanced - of course, only a fool would portray Salome as a wide-eyed ingenue, but there has to be power and an undertone of cruelty to her womanly charms, something substantial and robust. And Uhl's voice also delivered in spadefuls - at first oh-so-lyrical, like a Manon, like a Mimi, then it ripened and darkened with each passing exchange. Her battle of wills with Jochanaan was fearfully gripping - her perverse, dark fascination with the prophet, her stubborn proclamations of adoration was coloured with a wild, devout sense of foreboding. It was a deliberate, thoughtful performance - a quick glance at Uhl's performance history shows her to be intimately connected to Strauss - yet, despite this wealth of experience, no sense of staleness marred her lovely tone. Each increasingly frenzied refrain of 'I will deinen Mund küssen, Jochanaan,' was uttered in such a manner that caused one's stomach to coil as they watched on, repulsed yet compelled. 

Prior to the performance, the section that I feared for the most was the famous 'Dance of Seven Veils'. The stage at the memorial hall is small, and I have seen too many prima donnas ungainly and ungraceful in even crossing from one side of the stage to the other, let alone successfully present an exotically dark and intoxicating dance of feminine wile and seduction. The symbolic and metaphorical climax of Strauss' dark creation, anything short of majestic simply would never suffice. Here, stage director Anthony Pilavachi's resourcefulness shone through. To aid Uhl, four dancers were summoned, slowly advancing, snake-like and cruel, until they surrounded Uhl in a spidery, hazy web of limbs. Like creatures of the underworld, they spread their wiry bodies across the stage in silent, haphazard patterns - a masterful foil to the dancing demands of Salome. Together, they wove a web of mysterious, sexualised power.

Although Uhl was the undisputed star of the evening, nearly every member of the cast rose with her powerful portrayal to put forth collectively robust performances. Antonio Yang, as Jochanaan, was a pleasant surprise. There is a warmth and serenity to his tone that befits a holy preacher, spreading easily to every corner of the (admittedly small) hall. When he issued prophetic warnings from his watery dungeon (and thereafter, grave), they rang out with urgent foreboding, commanding as though truly from the divine. Despite the character only appearing on stage for twenty odd minutes, his presence throughout was tangible. In terms of characterisation, Roswitha Müller's Herodias was delightful. Spiteful, sullen and vengeful, her cackling glee at the prophet's beheading was inspired as was her complex fear when she begged her daughter not to dance. Her Herodes, however, in Stuart Patterson fell somewhat short given the calibre of performances surrounding him. It is customary for Herodes to we portrayed in a comical light, but I do not agree that comedy should be stretched to the extent that it inflicts disbelief. His very stature was disconcerting - he appeared particularly diminutive against his female companions, which might have helped a nuanced portrayal of the fearful, greedy and superstitious hypochondriac of a monarch if the entire character had not been derided as a farce through his attire. When he first ambled down the staircase, plastic looking black cloak trailing in his wake, my mind immediately painted an unflattering likelihood to a camp Dracula - and from then on, my enthusiasm for the character was dampened significantly. In  musical terms too he fell short of the high bar set by his peers - thin and reedy, his voice was at times inaudible over the full sound of the NSO.

Conducted and shepherded by Shao-Chia Lü, Taiwan's National Symphony Orchestra dispatched Strauss' relentless orchestration with terrific aplomb. Thoroughly accommodating to the singers, there was a united ebb and flow of emotion and discharge between stage and pit. And yet, there was never the sensation of being a secondary component - when the instrumentalists had solo passages, they delivered with strident zest and zeal, sweeping the audience into their midst of increasingly brusque runs and crescendos. During the Dance of the Seven Veils, the orchestra was as compelling, as wily a temptress as Uhl above them. It was their seduction as much as it was hers and, if I may speak for the audience collectively, we were defenceless against their combined charm.

Jonathan Kent's Manon Lescaut

The view from B-68 

Stepping out of the Royal Opera House, my fellow opera-goers seemed to heave a great sigh - some out of satisfaction, some more bemused and others completely irate. For a performance graced with such powerful and unadulterated vocal talent, very little of the discussion focussed on that aspect (although everyone had to find at least a few superlatives for Jonas Kaufmann). Rather, the crowd making their way to the tube station seemed increasingly occupied in trying to find some sort of common consensus for Jonathan Kent's ambitious production. With the Covent Garden crowd having a reputation for being something of traditionalists, the dramatically brassy sets caused a stir - the most obvious problem being Act II, in which instead of dancing a Minuet, Kent's Manon preens through some form of lap dance, most of which is done spread-legged on a mountain of hot pink cushions, while being filmed. The description alone sounds like something out of Katie Price's many variety shows, and the overall effect did little to dispel that conception. Placed in an odd glass/plastic box, Opolais was the very image of the next season of TOWIE. It was unapologetically garish, vulgar in a way that would send feminists into prolonged fits of apoplectic rage - but it certainly did a good job of unsettling the audience. By styling Manon as a courtesan of this age, modelled on nearly every WAG that has 'written' an expose of an autobiography, Kent raised some uncomfortable questions. Grumbles of misogyny and tastelessness could be readily heard during the interval - but even the original Puccini production intended Act II to be chauvinistic and discriminative. It enacts a certain power play between man and woman.  Manon, in any of her operatic or balletic incarnations, was never intended to be an innocent, wide-eyed ingenue. She is also playing the game for compliments, jewels, her pretty glass house. A traditional production puts the courtesan in a situation we have come to lushly romanticise - but Kent's production throws the courtesan into a discomfortingly modern prospective. She is a woman, who if walking down the street today, most of the Covent Garden crowd would shun, a woman whose constant parade of outfits would be eagerly documented by the DailyMail. It was an interesting approach which I seemed to stomach better than most, even in all its Malibu Barbie hyper-sexualised soft-porn male fantasy glory. 

However, it must be stressed that much of the success of the night has to be attributed to the sheer prowess of Kaufmann, Opolais and Pappano. The garishness of Act II I can rationalise, but had it not been Kaufmann, so vocally rich and persuasive, and Opolais, so completely immersed in the role that she radiated real convincing beauty even beneath the frankly ridiculous outfit, the entire act might have fallen completely flat. In terms of orchestration and libretto, I will always favour the reconciliation scene between Manon and Des Grieux in Massenet's opera, which truly emotes torment, seduction and lust most potently. But Kaufmann, most convincingly melding a sense of being wronged with longing, stepped forward with such earnestness that the frenzied emotion seized the audience. He sings helplessly, indignantly, pathetically, about having descended down the rungs of shame for her, leaving prudence and principles behind. His rich, earthy tone caresses every syllable with sincerity yet his high notes that expel with real purity and blossom with Puccini's swelling strings provoked a great sigh of exhilaration from the audience at every turn. With Kaufmann's Des Grieux, his voice is enough to transport. From his first appearance, there was a great sense of continuously falling from a precipice - Des Grieux's reverent awe upon his first meeting Manon, to an abandoned lover's conflict, to a broken man, it was an immersive experience. Opolais partnered him wonderfully. Her Manon was carefully studied and never verged on a rapaciousness that was unlikeable. It was only in the final act, however, that Opolais truly seemed to sing without restraint, atop the broken road, facing death. Both singers were greatly supported by a wealth of talent. Benjamin Hulett as the carefree Edmondo was a real highlight, as was Pappono and the entire ROH orchestra. The played with sensitivity, passion and a drive I have not sensed from them since the Die Frau Ohne Schatten production in March. The cumulative effect truly paid tribute to Puccini's original conception of unfettered, dramatic Italianate passion.

Nevertheless, there were several outstanding flaws in the production. The sets while sometimes novel, just got wilder. The deportation in Act III became terribly unclear - what precisely was intended by having the miscreants disappear through a ripped poster I cannot say (although I was missing that bottom right hand corner of the stage stage from my seat which perhaps accounts for some, but not all, of the confusion). Act I was disrupted by the unnecessary appearance of the car which just seemed painfully awkward. The breathlessness of Manon and Des Grieux's first encounter was unfortunately detracted by the casino in the background - there was no sense of two souls recognising each other, a sense of a tremulously momentous occasion. In this, the production perhaps forgets that Manon Lescaut is inherently above great love and romance, which was left to the singers to portray (excellently). My greatest complaint though concerns the set of Act IV which seemed to replicate a scene out of Godzilla - why precisely has such a road been ripped brutally in half? Why is Manon despairing about a desert when she is clearly lying on Tarmac, and thus presumably not too far from civilisation? The latter half of the opera, while musically even more wondrous, became near on unfathomable through the production. While the concept Kent chose was perhaps inspired, quite a few things seemed lost in translation. HOWEVER, I do not believe that the production staff warranted the boos they received. Besides some sightline problems which will inevitably frustrate some, particularly those who have paid for top tier tickets, there was nothing inflammatory enough to have provoked such a show of disrespect. It is art, interpretation of a roles and characters and such dogmatism left an unfortunate mark on what was otherwise a truly enjoyable evening. Tomorrow, I leave London after completing the first year of my degree at university. After a year during which I spent more hours in ROH than in tutorials, I depart on a high note.

**Small note on sight lines
My usual seat of choice (standing at the back of the Stalls Circle, affording an unhindered view of the stage horizontally) was unavailable. Instead, I chose a standing seat on the balcony level, which very provided a surprisingly clear view of the stage, barring the bottom right hand corner. This seat was greatly fortuitous for two vastly important reasons - much of the singing in Act I especially was carried out on the left hand side. Moreover, much of Acts I and IV placed the singers on sets suspended high in the air (from my vantage point, it looked very much like Kaufmann and Opolais were plastered against the ceiling). Thus, had I taken my usual seat which has no elevation, I would have missed near half of the acting, which would have been distressing to say the least.