“Music of our time” makes a rewarding evening, as does SFO’s Eugene Onegin

By Peter Alexander Aug. 10 at 10:45 p.m.

The Santa Fe Opera’s stunning world premiere production of John Corigliano’s Lord of Cries provided a fascinating and rewarding evening in the theater. The composer has total command of his materials and especially the orchestra, which creates a unique and powerful sound world for this loose adaptation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula.

This is music of our time, but mood and color are so manifest and so managed that the opera is easily appreciated and followed from beginning to end. There are moments of sheer loveliness, especially from the strings. To use a favored cliché of contemporary music criticism, The Lord of Cries is eminently accessible.

True, there are few memorable melodies—a lullaby and the ersatz children’s song “To do right is to be good” are exceptions—but the voice parts are nonetheless lyrical and singable, always complimentary to the voice. The vocal lines follow the words carefully, so that it never sounds tortured. In spite of moments of distress, passion and tumult from the orchestra, the texture is carefully managed to make the words understandable. This is music that communicates.

Conductor Johannes Debus managed the complex score with aplomb. He supported the singers well, keeping the orchestra under careful control when necessary, but he also built momentum in the climactic scenes, particularly the storm and the dramatic act endings. The perfectly natural stage direction by James Darrah worked so effortlessly as to be almost imperceptible.

Adam Riggs’s unit set comprises peach-colored walls and 19th-century lampposts, which projections enhance to suggest specific locations or reflect the drama. The projections by Adam Larsen are mostly abstract patterns or, in one case, a storm at sea that becomes part of the drama. 

The walls and lampposts are shifted for the second act. This is minimalist stage design at its best, open enough for anything to happen, only minimally burdened with symbolic weight—carcasses at the end representing the consumption of flesh by the vampire and his victims/accomplices, for example.

The libretto is presented as a mashup of Dracula with Euripides’s Bacchae, with the diabolical protagonist both Dracula and Dionysus (both names are used in the text). This reflects similarities of plot, but Lord of Cries is anything but a straight setting of either story. The characters have the same names as in Stoker’s Victorian-era novel, but they are mixed up and transformed to create a new story with similar characters, standing on its own without dependence on literary sources.

Dracula is the reincarnation of Dionysus, come to Victorian London; Dr. Seward, a follower and student of Van Helsing in the original novel, becomes the de-facto regent of London, bending everyone to his commands; Van Helsing, the learned prosecutor of vampires in the original, is largely Seward’s factotum in the opera; and Lucy becomes the wife of a deeply disturbed Jonathan Harker rather than the fiancée of Arthur Holmwood. Other characters from the novel are missing entirely, except for a rare oblique reference. Fans of the novel may find it confusing, but in the context of the opera it is all clear and well laid out.

In fact, one of the strengths of the opera is that Mark Adamo’s excellent libretto is so well laid out that it requires no prior preparation. This is in contrast to Corigliano’s one previous, overstuffed opera, Ghosts of Versailles, premiered 30 years ago at the Metropolitan Opera. The clarity and directness of The Lord of Cries makes one wish that Corigliano had not taken so long to find the right subject for his second opera.

One character has been added to help tell the story: a Correspondent for London’s Westminster Gazette, a speaking part who reads newspaper reports of the frightening events taking place. Kevin Burdette, a bass who sings Peter Quince in Midsummer Night’s Dream, proclaims his part with sometimes overloaded enunciation. It may seem exaggerated, but even with the orchestra at full cry you will not miss a word of his essential narration.

Apprentice Kathryn Henry took the crucial role of Lucy as a late substitute. This is a huge role, and as the only individual female character, she carries a large portion of the opera on her shoulders. Henry triumphed in the part. Her lovely lyric voice met every expressive demand, from her plaintive moments of deep emotion in Act I to the tense, dramatic encounter with Dionysus/Dracula in Act II. “Hush, Darling, hush,” her lullaby to her tortured husband Jonathan in the second act, was especially moving.

Tenor David Portillo sang the part of Jonathan Harker, a man beyond the edge of madness. He negotiated the vocal leaps, near screams and whimpers of the most extreme part in the opera. His strong dramatic voice is ideal for the expression and style Harker requires. With excellent diction and plenty of power he made every word tell.

The part of asylum director and near-dictator of London Jon Seward runs from tenderness to wild outbursts, often in the same number. Baritone Jarrett Ott negotiated all of that and more as Seward descends into his own madness at the end. Both the rigid moralist and the mad convert to Dionysus’s cult were convincingly portrayed.

Matt Boehler brought a deep, resonant voice to Van Helsing. For much of the opera, he has little to do but respond to Seward’s commands, but Boehler also contributed a sepulchral presence and a brief moment of drama. In the other fully human role, the captain of the ship that runs aground with Dracula on board, Robert Stahley was a sturdy and booming presence as he calls out entries from the ship’s log.

But it is the un-dead that create the drama. The “Three weird Sisters,” attendants of Dionysus, were sung by apprentice artists Leah Brzyski, Rachel Blaustein and Megan Moore, who gave a class in ensemble singing such than no one could be judged individually. The trio span the full range of the female voice, with extreme highs and growling lows used strategically by Corigliano and sung with fierce intensity by the young artists.

But it is the role of Dionysus/Dracula by which this opera stands or falls. Santa Fe was lucky to have countertenor Anthony Roth Costanzo for this role. His unique voice and widely-seen performance in the title role of Philip Glass’ Akhnaten at the Met have justifiably made him a superstar, and his performance as Dionysus was stunning.

As Dionysus he invests every phrase with meaning through phrasing, diction and movement. His remarkably beautiful voice is well controlled in all registers,. He is equally powerful dramatically, making his showdown with Lucy, where he breaks down her resistance and dooms her to a tragic end, the dramatic highpoint it must be.

Stoker’s Dracula is steeped in the respectable religiosity of Victorian England, but the opera incorporates Dionysus’s reply. From beginning to end, we see that Dr. Seward’s conventional pieties have no effect. The god’s appeals to inner desires overcome restraint again and again. This is the message that The Bacchae and Dracula have in common: you dare not deny “The Lord of Cries.” He will have his place.

Or in the words of the libretto, “You may assuage the priest without, but not the beast within.”

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For lovers of Romantic opera, Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin is as rewarding as anything the SFO presented this summer. Completely Romantic in style and deeply Russian in character, it is doubtless one of the great operas of the 19^th century.

The production opens on the veranda of the Larin estate in the Russian countryside. Gary McCann’s largely traditional scenic design makes use of the SFO’s location, with rural fields in the set opening to a vista of the northern New Mexico landscape. McCann’s costumes are mostly in period style, 19^th-century informal dress for the country, glittery and formal for St. Petersburg.

There are some unexpected twists added to this traditional conception: due to COVID, the chorus is seated just outside the theater facing the stage, and their place onstage is taken by dancers who wear elaborate headdresses and (symbolic?) fencing masks. Some of the headdresses suggest Native American design, others recall Dia de los Muertos imagery. The elaborate ball gowns in Act III are topped by sparkly human and animal skulls.

But the dancers, including members of the Wise Fool New Mexico company, do more than take the place of the traditional chorus onstage. As choreographed by Athol Farmer, they come and go on a logic all their own, sometimes surrounding the singers, at other times leaving them alone on stage. 

Confusingly, they were onstage when Onegin met Tatyana for their very private conversation about her letter. But for Lensky’s violent disruption of Tatyana’s name-day celebration and his rash dueling challenge to Onegin—a scene that is all the more shocking because it takes place before the assembled guests—the dancers are absent, leaving only the two disputants on stage. This baffling reversal of settings works against the sense of the story.

Dancers aside, Alessandro Talevi’s stage direction served the Pushkin/Tchaikovsky story well. The characters were well delineated, the blocking was efficient and clear, and the drama moved powerfully to its inevitable conclusion: resolute for Tatyana, crushing for Onegin.

Conductor Nicholas Carter led the orchestra in a performance of heart-on-the-sleeve passion and great flexibility. This was Russian Romanticism at its most evocative, from gentle lyricism to full orchestral climaxes. The production was greatly enhanced by the lighting design of Matt Haskins, particularly the lovely sunrise following Tatyana’s night of letter writing.

The opera is as much Tatyana’s as Onegin’s. In this central role, Sara Jakubiak—a returning 2007 apprentice making her SFO debut—was compelling. She projected a lovely sound in her gentle moments but did not always keep her strong voice under control. Her critical letter-writing scene—in which very little writing takes places as she shares her racing thoughts aloud—was performed with deep and true expression. Her transformation to a dignified princess in the final scene was convincingly portrayed in voice and posture.

Lucas Meachem lent a slight edge to his attractive baritone to express Onegin’s coldness and empty heart. His transformation from the superficial society dandy in the first acts to the suffering but still self-absorbed antihero of the final act was total. He and Jakubiak worked ably together to complete the reversal of positions, as she delivers a sermon even more devastating, and more deserved, than his in the first act.

Turkmenistani tenor Dovlet Nurgeldiyev brought a light, lyrical voice to the role of Lensky, ardent as the young poet must be, able to soar smoothly into his top range. His solo scene before his fatal duel with Onegin was a highlight, Lensky’s longing and his ultimate despair evident in his voice.

As Olga, Avery Amereau sang with a rich alto, projecting well into her lowest register. She captured well the flighty manner of Tatyana’s less mature younger sister. Deborah Nansteel sang the role of Filipyevna, Tatyana’s aging nurse, with a well supported voice and sympathetic nature. She paired well with a solid and dignified Katharine Goeldner as Mme. Larina.

Matthew DiBattista sang Triquet’s couplets with elegance. James Creswell’s rich voice and smooth phrasing made Prince Gremin’s third act aria on the gift of love another vocal high point. The full-voiced chorus added punch to both ball scenes.

This beautifully rendered Romantic opera was the perfect conclusion to my week at the Santa Fe Opera. From Mozart’s Figaro to Corigliano’s Lord of Cries, it is a season of dazzling variety and great accomplishment. The season runs to Aug. 27, with performances of all four operas still to come.

NOTE: Corrected Aug. 11 to include recognition of Matt Haskins’s lighting design in Eugene Onegin, inadvertently omitted in the original version of this story.

Reduced festival tours four centuries of opera in four works

By Peter Alexander Aug. 8 at 10:40 p.m.

The Santa Fe Opera offers a slightly reduced festival season this summer—four operas instead of the usual five. They have pulled this off in the face of the worst pandemic of modern times by careful consultation with health authorities and a very well organized response. A few, but only a few, scheduled artists had to cancel due to travel bans, and all were ably replaced. The four nights I attended went off smoothly with hardly any disruption in the audience experience.

The audience is required to wear masks and the entire house staff, from bartenders to ushers, is masked. Thanks to rigid testing and strict rules, the cast performs without masks, but numbers onstage are carefully controlled. In the house, every party is separated from their neighbors by an empty seat, and the “social-distancing” seats are strapped closed—straps that have to be moved for every performance. It is a tribute to the company’s organization that all of this went off without a perceptible hitch.

The four operas this summer came from four different centuries. You could not ask for a more attractive tour of opera history: Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro from the 18^th century, Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin an ideal representative of 19^th-century Russian Romanticism, Britten’s magical Midsummer Night’s Dream from the 20^th century, and the world premiere production of John Corigliano’s Lord of Cries from the current century.

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The Marriage of Figaro was largely a success, with a few glitches. The attractive and intriguing set plays on the opera’s unity of time, that the entire plot takes place in a single “crazy day.” The revolving set is surrounded by clockwork gears that turn as the stage turns. They also serve a symbolic purpose, visibly breaking down as the various plots unravel at the end. 

The central construction on the turntable is a pop-up book of shifting and folding pieces that create different spaces to represent rooms in the Almaviva castle. So far so good, but in execution, this conceit may be too clever by half. 

As Chantal Thomas’s set revolves, the singers distractingly have to move pieces around, sometimes with the help of stage hands. The transition to the final act, set in the garden, was particularly cumbersome, with stage hands placing large Roman numerals and broken gears—standing in for bushes—on stage while Cheyanne Coss as Barbarina found her plaintive aria about the lost pin totally upstaged.

It’s hard to see what purpose the complications serve. The interlocking set pieces move about and shift in interesting ways, but the distractions outweigh the advantages in almost every case. The set worked best when it moved least. 

The costumes by Laurent Pelly and Jean-Jacques Delmotte suggest Edwardian England. This transposition, to a period when aristocratic households were full of servants, fits the story well. The opera is fundamentally about class and sex, concerns that famously dominated the leisure class of the time.

Laurie Feldman’s direction served the opera well. Some of the goings and comings in and out of the moving parts of the stage were awkward, but the major action was clear and the characters well delineated. Such subtle touches as leaving the Count onstage for Figaro’s gentle teasing of Cherubino in “Non piu andrai” and showing the Countess handing Susanna the ransom money she delivers to the Count add meaningful details to the action.

Harry Bicket led the excellent Santa Fe Opera orchestra with grace and delicacy. Moments of escalating imbroglio, such as the Act II finale, were less than furiously driven, but I would point to the gentle and lovely accompaniment to the Countess’ melancholy “Dove Sono,” beautifully sung by Vanessa Vasquez, as one of many high points.

Vasquez was part of a generally strong cast. Throughout she was a figure of dignity, her singing matching her graceful movement. Her friendship with Susanna, two women who cross class lines to outwit the Count and confound Figaro, was evident. Her audible, floated pianissimos made “Dove Sono” deeply touching, but Mozart was in good hands whenever she sang. Her meticulous phrasing and deep expressivity were a pleasure.

Her partner in plots, Susanna, was portrayed by Ying Fang, who emerged as one of the stars of the evening. Her bright voice carried well through every ensemble, always audible, always delightful. Her energetic, pert characterization sparkled along with her voice. Her “Deh vienni” in the final act was another absolute highlight. She is a singer I look forward to hearing again.

Nicholas Brownlee was an energetic Figaro, pushing out his emphatic announcements but lacking refinement in his lyrical moments. He bounded confidently around the stage, the very representation of Figaro’s boundless wit and energy. His stentorian delivery suited “Non piu andrai” very well, and he was consistently at his best in Figaro’s emphatic moments. Occasional moments of disunity with the orchestra were quickly overcome.

Samuel Dale Johnson was the very image of the licentious Count Almaviva from his first entry in a bathrobe, evoking Hugh Hefner, whom he slightly resembles. His acting was effective enough that one doubts the sincerity of his theatrical repentance at the end. His singing was in service to the character, as he pivoted from braggadocio to befuddlement to anger.

Megan Marino was a boyish Cherubino. Her singing made less impression than her convincing adolescent swagger, but she definitely held her own. Her musical highlight, “Voi che sapete,” was cautious and calculated—perhaps by design? 

Patrick Carfizzi was every bit as pompous and self-important as Bartolo needs to be. This was equally evident in tone and posture, and he managed the transformation to the embarrassed, regretful father in the third act with comic precision. As Marcellina, his “housekeeper” who has a contract to marry Figaro, the veteran Susanne Mentzer was thin of voice but perfectly in character as first the harridan and then the doting mother.

Coss was a flirty, perky Barbarina. As her father, the gardener Antonio, James Cresswell downplayed the drunken clichés, creating a more sympathetic character. Brenton Ryan oozed effectively as Don Basilio, serving the Count’s amorous intrigues. Thomas Cilluffo was pleasing as the pettifogging judge, again not overdoing the usual opera buffa clichés.

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The libretto of Benjamin Britten’s Midsummer Night’s Dream, almost entirely Shakespeare’s text, condenses and recreates a literary masterpiece of the highest level. That was the first burden the composer faced.

Second would be the intersection of four separate worlds—the fairies who rule the woods by night, the two pair of lovers for whom the course of love does not run smooth, the simple tradesmen who meet to rehearse “obscenely and courageously,” and the court of Duke Theseus of Athens. Their collisions are by turn mysterious, hilariously funny, sweetly moving and deeply expressive of the human condition.

Each of those worlds and moods is brilliantly captured in Britten’s music, which reaches heights of beauty rare in the 20th century. With 19 named parts, the cast is large, including a countertenor, boy sopranos and a speaking part for a male acrobat. All considered, this creates a challenge in turn for any opera company.

Santa Fe’s success with this challenge was spotty. It was musically superb, with conductor Harry Bicket and the players in the pit negotiating Britten’s tricky score with style and great expression. The many individual solos were outstanding. 

The production, however, was mixed, both effective and baffling. This opera is so deep in meaning on its own that it resists the kind of symbolic interpretation that it received from designer/director Netia Jones.

The stage was adorned with a single tree, a derelict piano, a padded bench, random astronomical equipment, and a large disc on which were projected black and white images too literally tied to the text (the mention of snakes or flowers, for example, leads to images of snakes and flowers). Other projections were of silhouetted trees, the moon, or Rorschach patterns. 

The fairy band overused their trap door entrances. And beyond cheap laughs and an enhancement for Puck’s gymnastics, I cannot see what purpose was served by the trampoline.

First onstage is a staggering drunk and a woman wrapped in a long white winding sheet. These are later revealed to be Duke Theseus and his soon-to-be wife Hippolyta, who do not yet sing. Perhaps they stand in for the play’sopening in Theseus’ court, omitted in the opera. But the audience is left to guess why Theseus was tipsy in both the prologue and the final act—perhaps a comment on the Athenian court?

The costuming was equally baffling, a mix of 1950s student wear for the lovers, small-town Americana for the tradesmen, abstractly decorated black-and-white body suits with exotic headgear (top hats, rabbit ears, etc.) for the fairy band, lime-green suit for Puck, modern dress when the scene shifts to the court at the end. Oberon, wearing a tight-fitting suit, kept putting on and taking off a wolf’s head. In short, the costuming was more mystifying than the forest.

To take the four worlds in turn, Iestyn David sang well and held his own—more easily said than done for a countertenor—as Oberon. His solo moments, particularly the beautifully flowing  “I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,” were highlights. Erin Morley’s Tytania was one of the stars of the show, handling the coloratura comfortably and singing with great expression. 

The fairies were musically created by women apprentices, singing mostly from offstage, and by dancers onstage. The use of women’s voices has both advantages and drawbacks. Boys do not carry as well, whereas women made every note of the wonderful choral music audible. Women do not however have the delicate sound that Britten was aiming for. Angela Yam, Leah Brzyski, Rachel Blaustein, Taylor-Alexis DuPont sang well, but with adult voices, in their miniature solo roles.

Puck, performed by choreographer Reed Luplau, added another element to the production. A genuine acrobat, he leaped and gamboled through his performance, coming physically close to Britten’s conception of Puck. However, his spoken lines, delivered clearly enough, showed that Shakespearean English is not his native tongue.

The four lovers, apprentices all, brought an appropriate youthfulness to their parts. They were solid and generally well matched. Luke Sutliff, a stand-in as Demetrius, sang strongly with a full, direct sound. Dunn and Teresa Perrotta were vocally strong, well matched as Hermia and Helena. Their jealous battle in the second act was terrific (although why does Hermia, earlier demure, stand around comfortably in undies after her skirt is ripped off?). Duke Kim as Lysander was an ardent lover in voice and action, but occasionally rough in sound.

The translation of Shakespeare’s “rude mechanicals” to small town businessmen was disorienting. The jokes about their crude attempts at higher culture misfire when so framed, unless the aim is to satirize small towns—which is viable but was not Shakespeare’s purpose. (Besides, The Music Man did it better.) 

As Peter Quince, Kevin Burdette was a perfect chamber-of-commerce figure, exerting his authority vocally when required. Nicholas Brownlee’s strong, hard-edged voice made Bottom more brusque than buffoonish, but his comic turn with Tytania was delightful. Brenton Ryan had the high tenor voice and the manner of the tender Flute. The tall, deep-voiced William Meinert was in fine form as the dull-witted Snug. Patrick Carfizzi and Matthew Grills filled their less memorable parts as Starveling and Snout well.

The tradesmen—whatever we call them—come into their own in the performance of Pyramus and Thisbe in the final act. It would be hard to go wrong with this perfect parody of 19th-century opera. In Santa Fe it was over the top, with touches from vaudeville to fit the style of the costumes. I have to mention Ryan particularly, as Flute/Thisbe steals the show with his mock-romantic arias and mad scene, hilariously performed in a bright scarlet prom dress. 

When he finally sang, Cory McGee was commanding as Duke Theseus, his big voice demanding attention. Lindsay Kate Brown was a solid Hippolyta.

When the newlyweds go off to bed, the fairies retake the stage. Here the production produced sheer magic, with projections on the stage floor creating a sense of beauty and timelessness. Oberon, Tytania and the fairy chorus sing the gorgeous closing chorus “Now until the break of day” touchingly.

For a moment I was transported. Puck appeared, justifying the repeated pop-up entrances of the fairies earlier in the opera. He asked our indulgence and vanished, the best stage magic of the night. At the end, the opera triumphed.

NOTE: Reviews of Eugene Onegin and Lord of Cries will follow in a subsequent post.