Last September, Lise Davidsen gave a recital in the Metropolitan Opera House. Toward the end, when she was speaking to the audience, she said something like, “See you next February for Forza.” The crowd applauded in appreciation, and anticipation.
The great young Norwegian soprano is indeed back, singing Leonora in La forza del destino, the opera by Verdi. Last Friday night, she was in very good form. (I have never heard her in any other form.) She had an intonation slip or two, but this proved that she was human. So big is Davidsen’s voice, she can sing under her breath, so to speak—she can sing inwardly and pensively—and still fill the house.
A question: Was she Italianate? Italianate in this obviously Italian role? Let me quote from my review of Davidsen’s recital back in September. On her program was a Verdi aria, “Morrò, ma prima in grazia,” from Un ballo in maschera. I wrote, “Was it Italianate, from this Norwegian Wagnerian-Straussian?” My answer: “It was Italianate enough, yes.” The same can be said of Davidsen’s Leonora.
She is a good actress, too—a bonus in opera.
Many years ago, I used the phrase “half a Heppner.” I was referring to Ben Heppner, the Canadian heldentenor. I did not mean that he had half a voice. I meant that he seemed about half his former size, when he took the stage one night at the Met. (This was in Les Troyens, the Berlioz opera.) Lise Davidsen has not undergone a transformation so dramatic as Heppner’s. But let me say that she is so svelte now, she seemed eager to peel down to lingerie, which she did.
Another minor note, of interest to vocal-history nuts: Leontyne Price used to give a little yelp at the end of “Pace, pace” (Leonora’s big aria in Forza). She gave such a yelp at the end of many an Italian aria. Lise Davidsen did not give it. (She sang the aria powerfully and affectingly, I should say.) But I always hear it, mentally.
Conducting Forza was Yannick Nézet-Séguin, the music director of the Met. He was knowledgeable, assured, and musical. You could forget the conducting—there was nothing to worry about—and simply listen to the score. I believe that Maestro Nézet-Séguin put one foot wrong, only: in the tenor aria “O tu che in seno agli angeli.” It was loose, wayward, losing its pulse or spine.
The orchestra played very well for its chief. The clarinet and cello have significant roles. The Met’s players delivered. So did the chorus. Verdi writes some of his warmest choruses in this opera.
Our tenor—our Alvaro—was Brian Jagde. He is a lyric with a dose of the heroic. He was a satisfying Alvaro. When he and Ms. Davidsen sang the same high note, you could not hear him—but every tenor, paired with this soprano, will suffer the same fate. At the beginning of his aria—the aforementioned tenor aria—Mr. Jagde was bravely soft. Verdi tenors do not grow on trees. Jagde is a valuable singer.
So is Igor Golovatenko, who portrayed Carlo. He is a Russian baritone who sounds like an Italian baritone: bright, forward, focused. Google tells me that I reviewed him in a Queen of Spades at the Met. (This is an opera by Tchaikovsky.) Lise Davidsen was making her Met debut, at the time—four seasons ago. I wrote,
The voice is huge and lyric—a rare, wondrous combination. I thought of Deborah Voigt, and also of Ghena Dimitrova, but Davidsen is her own woman. A phenomenal addition to the operatic scene.
Friday night’s Preziosilla was Judit Kutasi, a mezzo of Romanian-Hungarian origin. She was robust and emphatic. Soloman Howard, an American bass, was Father Guardiano—and also the Marquis of Calatrava. (More on that in a moment.) Beautiful voice, which could stand more of an Italian focus and penetration, in roles such as these. Patrick Carfizzi was Melitone, competent as always. Such a “utility infielder” in opera is not to be taken for granted.
“I expected it to be much worse,” said a woman near me during a pause in Act I. “I was steeled.” She was referring to the production, which is a new one, directed by Mariusz Treliński. He transfers the story from the eighteenth century to the present day. I believe that the visual does not match the aural in this production. But that is an old story by now. And Treliński is a smart fellow.
All through the overture, there is action on the stage. Directors do that these days. They can’t let the music alone. They can’t let the music have pride of place. They can’t let an overture introduce the story, all by itself. Verdi’s overture to La forza del destino is a fabulous concert piece, as it happens. It does not really need the aid (if “aid” is the word) of the visual. But modern directors usually demand, or impose, the visual from the git.
It is clear that Mariusz Treliński respects the opera and does not seek to undermine it. He is not a saboteur. No, no, no. But, at various turns, I had to ask, “Why?”
Why does Leonora have a car accident? Why does Alvaro cut himself? Why are the Marquis and Father Guardiano played by the same singer? This is confusing. Why does Father Guardiano—this benevolent and holy man—strike Leonora? Hit her? Why would he do that, when Leonora, desperate, comes to him for refuge? (Incidentally, Melitone, who is usually played curmudgeonly, is more like nasty in this production.) Why is it that the ghost of the Marquis, rather than Father Guardiano, pronounces the benedictions at the end? Why would the Marquis even talk that way?
In “Pace, pace,” Leonora sings, “Chi profanare ardisce il sacro loco?” “Who dares to profane this sacred place,” meaning her hermitage, where no one else is allowed? Yet the “sacro loco” is the entrance to a subway station.
I know, I know: Don’t be a fuddy-duddy, don’t be a square. Yeah, sure. And, to say it again, the director is a smart fellow. But you know who else was? Is? Verdi and Piave (his librettist). Old is not necessarily bad; new and different is not necessarily good.
A footnote, if you will: In the opera, Carlo sings the word “ritratto”—“portrait.” The Met’s titles give us “photo.” That comports with the production, to be sure. But does it also play fast and loose with the work?
One more footnote—providing something light to end on. Lise Davidsen is a towering woman (and a beautiful one). She towered over her tenor (making a standing embrace awkward). Even more, she towered over the conductor, when bows were being taken. I thought of Karita Mattila, the Finnish soprano, and Martin Katz, the pianist, in recital. One time, I saw her pat him on the head, as a tender mother would a child. Not sure what Katz thought about that . . .