Piotr Beczala as Vaudémont and Anna Netrebko as the title character in Tchaikovsky’s Iolanta. Photo: Marty Sohl/Metropolitan Opera
The Metropolitan Opera is staging a double bill, composed of Tchaikovsky’s Iolanta and Bartok’s Bluebeard’s Castle. The first is about a blind princess, healed by truth and love. (And the mysterious machinations of a Moorish doctor?) The second is about a lady who falls for a murderous duke and winds up in the soup with the rest of his wives.
Serving as stage director for these operas is Mariusz Trelinski, a Pole. Serving as conductor is Valery Gergiev, the Russian. I attended the double bill on Tuesday night.
In the past few years, I have written a fair amount about Iolanta. I have always said, “Not to be confused with Iolanthe, the Gilbert & Sullivan operetta.” My sense is that the operetta is much better known than Tchaikovsky’s opera, at least in the English-speaking world. But musical fashion changes. One day, I may find myself writing about the operetta and saying, “Not to be confused with Iolanta, the Tchaikovsky opera.”
During its 2011 season, the Salzburg Festival presented Iolanta in a concert performance. The concert starred Anna Netrebko, the Russian soprano, and Piotr Beczala, the Polish tenor. They were Iolanta and her nobleman, Vaudémont. A few months later, in New York, the Dicapo Opera Theatre staged the work. There were no stars in that performance—but there may have been future stars.
For its performances, the Met took the singers from Salzburg, Netrebko and Beczala. It would be hard to do better.
On Tuesday night, Netrebko was in very good form. I have often said, “She sharps in languages not her own.” It was almost gratifying to hear her sharp all through Iolanta (in her own language). She is an equal-opportunity sharper. But this imperfection hardly mattered; indeed, it was almost an endearment. Netrebko sang with that black soprano of hers—“obsidian,” I have sometimes called it. She has a blackness that gleams. A black bass is rather common, especially from Russians; a black soprano is rare, I think.
Most important, Netrebko sang with her musical intelligence, and theatrical intelligence. For those, there is no substitute. Gergiev, in the pit, led the opera with the same kinds of intelligence. One could say more, but that is enough. Musical and theatrical intelligence governed the performance from beginning to end.
The tenor, Beczala, was in good form, singing with his customary exuberance. He sometimes has more exuberance than exactitude, but his exuberance counts for a lot, as does that marvelous instrument. There were other men on the stage—I will mention them briefly.
A Russian bass, Ilya Bannik, sang the role of King René. He had a fine voice, to go with a regal presence, but he did not have enough of that voice: He was simply too faint. The lack of volume reduced the regality of the presence.
Singing beautifully, and amply, was a baritone from Azerbaijan, Elchin Azizov. He portrayed the Moorish doctor, Ibn-Hakia.
Pouring out the sound—singing with beauty and strength and dynamism—was Aleksei Markov, a Russian baritone. His role was Robert, Vaudémont’s buddy. He was a little shaky on a high G, but splendid everywhere else. Markov threatened to steal the show from the tenor.
But no one could steal it from the soprano, or the conductor. (Or Tchaikovsky.)
The stage director did his part, too. Trelinski’s Iolanta has the enchantment of the story, score, and libretto. He uses video, but not obnoxiously: He uses it to secure the enchantment.
There was one touch in this staging I did not understand. At one point, Vaudémont and Robert greet each other with a high five, followed by a combination of handshake and chest bump. To me, this was jarringly anachronistic, rather than charming or whimsical.
Regular readers will forgive my repetition: I have no idea what Anna Netrebko would score on the SAT, but her musical-theatrical IQ is off the charts. There is some Callas in her. I’m glad I heard her before the hype, before her stardom. It was 2002, and she was an unknown Russkie in Prokofiev’s War and Peace. She was flooring.
Almost as many years ago, I heard Gergiev conduct Mazeppa, a Tchaikovsky opera obscure in the West. He made it sound like an incomprehensibly neglected masterpiece. Is it, in fact, a masterpiece? I don’t know. I don’t know the extent to which Gergiev’s electricity that night stamped my view.
On Tuesday night, he began the Bartok opera, Bluebeard’s Castle, as one should: smolderingly, threateningly. The opera stayed in its desired veins, too. Gergiev is very good at the management of tension. The management of tension is key in this opera.
The conductor had plenty of help from the singers, Nadja Michael and Mikhail Petrenko. The former is a German soprano, the latter is a Russian bass. This is a two-singer opera. And each singer met a high standard.
I have called Michael a soprano, but is she? Or is she a mezzo? I think she’s a ’tweener, sort of like Jessye Norman and Michelle DeYoung (two distinguished Judiths—the character in Bluebeard’s Castle). Michael was rugged and at the same time burnished. She was powerful without being a bull or a brute. She sang with strong femininity (while expressing the necessary vulnerability). In short, she was a Judith.
When Door No. 5 opens—I won’t pause to explain!—the mezzo, or soprano, sings a glorious high C. This is one of the most famous and anticipated notes in opera, really. From Michael, it was low (meaning flat) and brief—very brief. But this is a tiny complaint, measured against that excellent performance.
For all these years, Mikhail Petrenko has maintained a glow in his bass. Probably, he does nothing to maintain it. It is simply there, from nature. And Petrenko intoned his part effectively. He was a Bluebeard.
In all likelihood, Bartok’s Concerto for Orchestra is that composer’s most popular work. In a sense, Bluebeard’s Castle is a concerto for orchestra, as well as an opera. I should single out five or six players, but will settle for two: the flute and the clarinet. They were just what the doctor (or Bartok) ordered. Our principal flute was Denis Bouriakov, a Russian; the clarinet, Boris Allakhverdyan, an Armenian from Azerbaijan.
Just coincidentally, I have written (for National Review) an essay on the “dynasty” question, as it relates to Jeb Bush. I talk of how it is natural for sons (and daughters) to follow fathers (and mothers) into lines of work. The father of the Met’s principal clarinetist was principal clarinet in the Baku Opera.
For a stage director, Bluebeard’s Castle is a field day—a psychological or symbolist field day. Mariusz Trelinski has taken full advantage. He does not compete with, or contradict, Bartok’s opera—I have known directors who have—but rather complements it. He could be kicked out of the Directors Guild.
Trelinski (or someone) adds some outside noises: boomingly creaking doors and the like. Is that cheating? Shouldn’t the only sounds be from the singers or orchestra? If it’s cheating, I’m afraid I (mainly) approve.