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the last few weeks, the Metropolitan Opera has been offering one
of its most unusual evenings. Debuting in 1981, it is entitled Parade,
named for the first of the three works on the bill. That work is
the ballet concocted by Jean Cocteau, Pablo Picasso, and Erik Satie.
The other two works are operas, or mini-operas, or semi-operas:
Francis Poulenc's Les Mamelles de Tirésias (The
Breasts of Tirésias) and Maurice Ravel's L'Enfant
et les Sortilèges (The Child and the Sorcerors).
Again, a most unusual evening, about as far away from Aida
— or from Lohengrin — as you can get in an opera
house, for better or worse.
Parade,
the ballet, is beautifully and imaginatively staged, thanks to talents
such as John Dexter and David Hockney. Costumes, props, and everything
else seem spot-on, conveying the necessary French decadence, boisterousness,
and frivolity (among other qualities). The principal dancer was
Damian Woetzel, a stalwart of the New York City Ballet, who was
his typical lithe, elegant, composed self.
The score is
not Satie's best, truth to tell. He is best known for his Gymnopédies
for piano, and, more particularly than that, for a single Gymnopédie,
the first in the set. (I recall that one nightly radio program used
it, in an orchestral transcription, as both its lead-in and its
closing piece, when I was a boy.) The conductor, James Levine, handled
Parade rather bluntly, without an overabundance of nuance
or délicatesse. But, to repeat, this is not an especially
distinguished or refined score. If Satie's reputation rested on
it, we would probably not know of him.
Poulenc, of
course, is a brilliant vocal composer, as evidenced in his many
songs. His Mamelles de Tirésias is subtitled an "opera
buffa in a prologue and two acts" (libretto by Apollinaire).
Much of this score is sensuous, sparkling, mysterious, insinuating;
some of it is coarse; some of it is cabaret-like (though we're talking
high cabaret).
Taking the
leading female part was the Spanish soprano Ainhoa Arteta, one of
the most beautiful women in opera. Why do I mention this? For two
reasons. First, her extraordinary looks can hardly have hurt her
career. When I first saw her — in a Washington, D.C., production
of Puccini's La Rondine — I thought of the famous anecdote
about Elisabeth Schwarzkopf: A veteran concert-goer attends a performance
with a newcomer; Schwarzkopf walks out on stage, and the newcomer
gasps, "And she sings, too?"
Arteta does
indeed sing, and well. She has a light, high, smallish voice, but
with some pop, some power. In the Poulenc, she spun some lovely
notes, particularly in the upper register. Also, she enacted her
(outlandish) part with charm and verve.
Oh, that second
reason? Arteta, of all sopranos — as this opera's Thérèse/Tirésias
— transforms herself into a man, complete with mustache and
beard. In due course, however, she is restored as a woman, happier
than ever.
As far as I
was concerned, the hit and "find" of the evening was the
American baritone Earle Patriarco, who, in the Poulenc, sang The
Husband. He delivered smooth, natural, pleasant singing, with a
most beautiful voice, which included a "liquid" quality
— something greatly to be prized. By the evidence of this night,
he sings in astonishingly even lines. It would be a pleasure, one
would think, to hear him in the French song repertory, or in any
other song repertory.
After intermission,
it was the turn of L'Enfant et les Sortilèges, which
Ravel described as a "lyric fantasy in two parts" (libretto
by Colette). There are people who love L'Enfant extravagantly,
considering it Ravel's masterwork (which is saying something, particularly
in light of the pieces he produced for piano). The composer Ned
Rorem, writing for the Met's program, says, "If my house were
on fire and I could take only three recordings, they would all be
[of] L'Enfant et les Sortilèges, the most beautiful
music ever written."
The primary
singer in this work — which calls for a great many singers,
who perform briefly — is The Child, normally a mezzo-soprano.
There is the trick in this part of finding the balance between child-likeness
and regular, "adult" singing. The title roles in Hänsel
und Gretel demand the same trick.
At the Met,
the Australian-American soprano Danielle de Niese solved things
nicely, with a clear, correct, knowing, and lovely performance.
The mezzo-soprano Wendy White, as The Mother, showed off her dusky
sound, always a pleasure to hear. Other singers of note include
Olga Makarina, as The Fire, and Ruth Ann Swenson, as The Princess.
Swenson is in town mainly to sing Gilda in Rigoletto. She
did a predictably beautiful turn in the Ravel.
The Met players,
too, shone, and showed off a little virtuosity; the woodwinds, especially,
were adept, assured. Levine allowed the music to be just slightly
heavier than it might be — less Gallic, more solid and grounded,
in a way. Also, his tempos were a little slow, though short of ponderous,
putting one in mind of his Pelléas et Mélisande
(Debussy).
The entire
production allowed the listener, and viewer, to enter into the peculiar
fantasy world, or fairy-tale world, of L'Enfant. Regardless
of whether this work is all that its worshipers claim for it, it
is a wonderful achievement, lending a touch of genius to the Met's
Parade.
Mr. Nordlinger
also writes a monthly music chronicle for The New Criterion.
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