Glimmerglass Opera, Cooperstown, N.Y.; August 6th and 7th, 2005
Glimmerglass Opera in Cooperstown, New York is in bloom again, and in addition to Mozart’s Cosi fan tutte and Britten’s Death in Venice, the company is presenting three French operas.
Well, not exactly: One is Donizetti’s revision of his already famous 1835 opera, renamed “Lucie de Lammermoor,” for the Paris Opera in 1839. (At one point in Paris that year, “Lucie” was playing at one theatre and “Lucia” at another!) It’s not merely a translation – in it, Lucia’s confidante, Alisa, has been excised, leaving her with no companionship, a nasty conspirator named Gilbert has been added to aid her brother in his dastardly ways (and who therefore softens the character of Henri, the brother), and the priest, Raymond, has less to do. In addition to a replacement aria in Lucie’s opening scene, there are some alterations to the vocal lines and orchestration which aficionados can enjoy spotting. But the effect is the same – it’s Lucie’s opera, the tale of a fragile girl driven mad by what she believes is betrayal by her lover, Edgar.
Seen August 6th, Sarah Coburn was a remarkable Lucie. A beautiful young woman, Coburn acted naturally and tossed off Donizetti’s difficult roulades and high notes with ease – there were none of those “will-she-or-won’t-she-make-it” moments that can plague some singers in this role: Coburn’s voice and technique are spotless and her Mad Scene dazzled. Her tone is almost too bright – it lacks warmth – but this is something the young diva will, we hope, work on. Tenor Raul Hernandez was her Edgar, a bit awkward physically, but with ringing high notes (a grand E flat in alt at the close of their first act duet included as written). He sings with little force in the middle and bottom of his voice, as if he’s saving himself, but he comes to life in the big moments. Baritone Earle Patriarco was a secure, nicely malevolent Henri, but it’s a pity that the roles of Gilbert and Arthur (the husband Lucie slaughters) were taken by two mediocre tenors. Beatrice Jona Affron led the score with great rhythmic verve and tension and the Glimmerglass Orchestra and Chorus responded well.
The singing was good enough to make the audience tolerate the odd production. John Conklin’s sets – abstract black, moveable slabs with floating clouds on them and a white panel which was raised and lowered at different moments offered little of the Scottish Highlands, and Lillian Groag’s direction also puzzled: Early on, a female deer is stalked and killed (all of Henri’s men carry crossbows); later the chorus women, dressed in blood-red gowns and with stern, almost witches’ coven-like attitudes, danced with antlers. Oh well, symbolism. Keep your eyes and ears on Sarah Coburn.
The next day’s matinee brought a double bill of Massenet’s “Le Portrait de Manon” and Poulenc’s ”La Voix Humaine.” Aside from the language, the works have nothing in common other than they each take about 45 minutes to perform. “Portrait,” composed in 1894, is absolute treacle, Massenet at his most perfumed, shallow and sweet. It concerns Des Grieux, 20 years after Manon’s death, trying to convince his nephew, Jean, not to marry Aurore, a girl of no wealth or standing. He rediscovers a portrait of Manon and recalls his own love and relents. Period. There’s a nice matchmaker character named Tiberge, Jean’s tutor. Tenor Colin Ainsworth and soprano Kristine Winkler were the convincing young lovers, with Theodore Baerg offering a mellow baritone as Des Grieux and Bruce Reed’s colorful tenor making the most of Tiberge. David Newell’s set was a small, musty room, with images of the late Manon as backdrop; Miranda Hoffman’s costumes were nice 18th century period pieces. David Lefkowich’s direction was easy-going.
The jewel of the afternoon, absolutely worth waiting for, was Poulenc’s “La Voix Humaine,” a one-woman show with a libretto by Jean Cocteau. This searing monodrama is in the form of a phone conversation a woman is having with her ex-lover; there are hints that she has attempted suicide before and she’s clearly unstable. The entire show is a study in sado-masochism; she can’t say good-bye and he won’t – they’re occasionally disconnected, but he calls back. Throughout, she goes through mundanities – hanging up laundry, dressing, going to the fridge – all the while explaining herself and her position to the man who has abandoned her. The opera was composed in the 1950s: David Newell’s shiny set and Miranda Hoffman’s glamorous, crinoline-laden costume perfectly invoked the era and Robert Wierzel’s sensitive ligting commented on the action. Director Sam Helfrich did not require “Elle” (“She,” as the character is known) to hang on to the phone – she put it down and roamed the stage like a caged beast, free of wires. The effect was momentarily off-putting, but it allowed for greater movement. A moment was lost when Elle tells the absent lover that the phone cord is around her neck – a suicide threat – but we get the point. Amy Burton’s portrayal of the challenging character was stupendous – at times understated, sometimes in a state of panic, always desperately alone and sad. Her singing was stunning; her French diction flawless. Here was an alluring woman having a nervous breakdown.
Stewart Robertson led both operas with aplomb, particularly bringing out Poulenc’s odd harmonies, so revealing about Elle’s mind. The scores were beautifully played by the Glimmerglass Orchestra.
Robert Levine
