On Parade
A rare, strange evening at the Metropolitan Opera.

By Jay Nordlinger, NR music critic
March 26 , 2002, 9:30 a.m.

or 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.