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Whether or not you agreed with Gilbert's booklet notes; assigning the role of spiritual ideal to the brass, feminine ideal to the winds, and Schumann himself to the strings; wasn't really important. What impresses me is the depth of Gilbert's convictions -- and the depth of the new musical director's commitment to sharing them. Both bode well for Gilbert's impact and the future of the Phil.
Elektra (***1/4) -- As a spectacle, Elektra is a pale shadow of its notorious predecessor, Salome. Both of these Strauss operas end with their title characters reveling in triumph -- and dying as a result. But Electra really hasn't done anything to deserve her death. Since her stepfather Aegisthus conspired with Queen Clytemnestra to kill her father, King Agamemnon, she has skulked defiantly outside the palace, waiting for her brother Orestes to return and avenge the crime. Now Salome, she ordered John the Baptist's head on a platter and stripping herself naked in the Dance of the Seven Veils to seal the deal. That's one bloodthirsty slut, a spectacular character.
But if this protagonist is relatively humdrum, the music of Elektra, from its ominous "Agamemnon!" onwards, bridges much of the gap. Clytemnestra, played by the venerable Felicity Palmer in the Met production, is a deliciously wicked piece of work, and if Susan Bullock doesn't lift Electra into the realm of vengeful majesty, she certainly plumbs the depths of the castaway princess's degradation and insanity.
Surprisingly, although Evgeny Nikitin brings a countrified savagery to his portrayal of Orestes, his role in Hugo von Hofmannsthal's libretto, adapted from his play, is rather marginalized by the nattering women. The best of these, from a purely vocal standpoint, was Deborah Voigt as Chrysothemis, the obedient daughter who keeps counseling sister Electra to go with the flow.
Jurgen Rose's set design, a stately edifice of marble rubble punctuated by a fallen equestrian statue, adds little color to the static action, but Fabio Luisi, conducting the Met orchestra, makes the score glitter like a dagger. If this Met production becomes a Live in HD production, you may wish to seek out the live radio broadcast that afternoon.
Turandot (***)-- I shudder to think that, instead of an Elektra overhaul, Met GM Peter Gelb might consider replacing this Franco Zefferelli design. For here is splendor that soars nearly to the top arch of the Met's lofty proscenium, with a profusion of costumes by Anna Anni and Dada Saligeri that intoxicate the eye with color. More exciting than the designer's challenge to replace such splendor are the challenges to singers and directors to fill these magnificent symmetries with sound and action -- and bring those luxuriant silks alive!
Stage director Daniel Kneuss lovingly emphasizes the ceremonial aspect of Puccini's last masterwork. Maria Guleghina, if not the very best soprano to sing the role at the Met, benefits greatly from the perfectly timed sweep of her gown as the icy Princess Turandot finishes issuing her ritual challenge to Calaf and turns her back scornfully at him, knowing for a certainty that he will die in his rash attempt to solve her riddles. Gestures of pleading, surprise, dismay, and the final coy yielding that follow, as Calaf confounds her expectations throughout the evening, are similarly ritualized with a distinctively Asian flavor.
Guleghina's rough voice and wide vibrato suit the cruel, fearsome side of Turandot while the wardrobe injects the aura of beauty. We more readily accept her in the vocal lineage of Joan Sutherland and Birgit Nilsson than we accept Salvatore Licitra filling the shoes of Luciano Pavaroti. There were moments when Licitra's voice rang with enough true tenor heroism to keep the audience anticipating a bravura "Nessun dorma!" to cap the performance.
Unfortunately, the big tune was done badly enough on the night we attended to be called a scandal. No applause when Licitra finished, as conductor Andris Nelsons mercifully sped along, and not a single "Bravo!" when the cast took their bows. On this night, there were bravas for Guleghina and for Maija Kovalevska as Liu, the faithful servant who chooses death instead of allowing Turandot to solve her master Calaf's counter-riddle. Kovalevska sang creditably enough, particularly before her suicide, but I suspect some of the acclaim showered on her by the audience was to spite Licitra.
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