Someone may have posted this already, but for those of you who might be interested in the version of Satyagraha done by the Metropolitan Opera in 2008, here is a nice interview about it:
I thought it was really beautifully (and subtly) done, for the most part.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Glass and Film
There was some mention in class this week about Phillip Glass' work on film music, which reminded me that the score to one of my favorite films, The Illusionist, was written by him. In this movie, I feel that his music functions in much the same way that Leitmotifs function in a Wagner opera. That is, they help the audience track a certain character or idea through the work. Coincidentally, I find the film to be fairly operatic in some of its conventions. For example, the opening credits are set to what could easily be a prologue or an overture for an opera, setting up the mood (and troubled undercurrents) as well as the time period (19th-century Vienna: this is accomplished by operatic or symphonic-sounding passages interwoven into the music - like the beginning of this clip). Throughout the film, the music is used to highlight emotional or (literally) magical moments (For example, 1:10 in this clip). In this way, it ties the film together, binding the past and the present, hinting at what might have been or what might be, and reminding us of scenes we have already seen. The film is a mystery tale at heart and Glass' music is particularly good at maintaining the forward motion and tension inherent in the plot through the use of his repeated patterns.
However, the difference between the use of music in The Illusionist and Glass' stage works, is that in the film his soundtrack in interrupted by moments of silence and dialogue that give the listener a break from the constant stream of music one finds in a piece like Satyagraha. Additionally, perhaps it is the plot, character development and imagery that allow us to stay engaged in the film more easily. After all, film music is designed to affect the listener, but perhaps on more of a subconscious level than a conscious one (we don't necessarily listen actively to a film score - well, some people might...). Is that one possible reason why Glass' music works so well for film? But then, is it simply the lack of plot, as we know it, in Satyagraha that causes the listener to "zone out", or is there a quality that is inherent to his music that simply affects the audience on another level altogether?
My Glass is Half Full...
In, general I really love Phillip Glass' compositions and find them to be beautiful and emotionally affecting, even if they are not always affecting in a totally positive, calming way. In fact, watching the clip of Koyaanisqatsi was very interesting for me because I found that the music coupled with the images presented really disturbed me and made me extremely anxious. I think I agree with Rachel that in this case, his music seemed to amplify the mood I was already in. (On that note, I am finding it hard to concentrate on writing this while listening to Satyagraha again because I up more involved in the music than my own thought process....).
I think I am drawn to the music of Phillip Glass because of the way he creates such expansive works using such economic means. I am fascinated by the subtle changes in repeating patterns. His music often reminds me of watching a kaleidoscope (or something like this video) and I find it both trance-inducing and intellectually stimulating (I remember feeling extremely Zen - calm but focused - after seeing Satyagraha for the first time). There is something about the extended tension in his writing that really pulls my heart strings.
However, many classmates commented on the fact that they had trouble concentrating while watching the work and found their attention wandering away at various points. Perhaps we, as a culture or generation, simply don't possess the patience or attention span needed to fully appreciate this work?
Another thing that fascinates me about Glass' music is the way it lends itself to visual representation. As I talked about in my last post, I feel that his music is exceedingly effective in film. One point that became exceedingly clear through our discussions of staging the work, was the necessity most of us felt for a deeper connection between the visual material and the music in Satyagraha. It is as if, with a Glass work for the theater, the music and the staging must be so complimentary as to be interdependent - that one could not exist without the other - or each will detract from the other (this strikes me as a concept that is common to dance more than theater). I don't know that this could be said about many operas. I think that is another way in which Glass' pushes the metaphorical envelope.
I think I am drawn to the music of Phillip Glass because of the way he creates such expansive works using such economic means. I am fascinated by the subtle changes in repeating patterns. His music often reminds me of watching a kaleidoscope (or something like this video) and I find it both trance-inducing and intellectually stimulating (I remember feeling extremely Zen - calm but focused - after seeing Satyagraha for the first time). There is something about the extended tension in his writing that really pulls my heart strings.
However, many classmates commented on the fact that they had trouble concentrating while watching the work and found their attention wandering away at various points. Perhaps we, as a culture or generation, simply don't possess the patience or attention span needed to fully appreciate this work?
Another thing that fascinates me about Glass' music is the way it lends itself to visual representation. As I talked about in my last post, I feel that his music is exceedingly effective in film. One point that became exceedingly clear through our discussions of staging the work, was the necessity most of us felt for a deeper connection between the visual material and the music in Satyagraha. It is as if, with a Glass work for the theater, the music and the staging must be so complimentary as to be interdependent - that one could not exist without the other - or each will detract from the other (this strikes me as a concept that is common to dance more than theater). I don't know that this could be said about many operas. I think that is another way in which Glass' pushes the metaphorical envelope.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Just Perhaps...(a consideration, a rant, and a response)
A Consideration
As I was considering what I might do to stage Barber's Anthony and Cleopatra, I remembered that New York City Opera put up a version of the work last year, while they were temporarily exiled from their home in Lincoln Center. The company presented the work in concert form, allowing the music to take center stage. Judging from the two reviews I read (here and here), the response to the performance was mixed, but both authors agreed that what was successful about the effort was that the spotlight was focused on Barber's composition and the work was stripped of the competing stage gimmickry that has gone along with it in the past. Perhaps that was just what the piece needed to redeem it. After all, Barber's experimentation with exoticism in the orchestra conjures up almost all of the imagery that an audience needs to appreciate the setting of the opera (I do appreciate the fact, however, that John Yohalem acknowledged in his review that listening to this work takes some concentration).
A Rant
It's just that, in my opinion, an audience's imagination is bound to be much more powerful than anything an opera company can cover the stage with. Why not merely suggest the grandeur of Eygpt and Rome? Why use "six barges, twelve horses, four elephants, and 120 Romans,"* when you could use something simpler and more elegant? Why not let the audience do some of the work and involve them mentally? While I appreciate the sheer grandeur and beauty of many of Zeffirelli's productions on a purely skin-deep level, I think that an opera for which the production values are the main attraction misses the point somehow. Shouldn't opera effect audiences through the drama of the music as well, not just assault them visually? Perhaps that is just my minimalist taste. After all, there is a long tradition of grand opera.... I just think it's somewhat frivolous. On the other hand, if that type of grandeur is a draw for audiences, who am I to say that it is frivolous (I am thinking here of the popularity of Zeffirelli's productions at the Metropolitan Opera, especially his La Bohème)?
A Response
In response to Erin's post The Met Opening - Why Barber?: I think she brings up many good points. I agree that the opening of the new Met should have been an epic event in which the company could show off what it could do. Barring that, when I think "American sound", I hear the compositions of Copland, Gershwin, Bernstein, and even the Barber of "Sure on this Shining Night" or "Knoxville, Summer of 1915". The music that contains that "American" idea is one that has a certain intimacy to it, despite its wide-open-plains feeling. That aesthetic would be easily overshadowed by excessive production values; therefore, in my mind that typically "American" sound and aesthetic simply doesn't seem to mesh with the bombastic staging and sets such as those that Zeffirelli provided for Anthony and Cleopatra. Think of the American opera you know a little about now...Aside from The Ghosts of Versailles (which is based on previously written operatic story lines, and which was criticized for being overly excessive in the same way that Anthony and Cleopatra was), I can't think of any American operas which have the scope or subject matter to support such an ornamental production. Granted, I acknowledge that my knowledge on the subject is still limited. Perhaps this is an idea that will evolve as we continue the class...
*Heyman, “A New Opera House,” Samuel Barber: The Composer and his Music, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 446.
As I was considering what I might do to stage Barber's Anthony and Cleopatra, I remembered that New York City Opera put up a version of the work last year, while they were temporarily exiled from their home in Lincoln Center. The company presented the work in concert form, allowing the music to take center stage. Judging from the two reviews I read (here and here), the response to the performance was mixed, but both authors agreed that what was successful about the effort was that the spotlight was focused on Barber's composition and the work was stripped of the competing stage gimmickry that has gone along with it in the past. Perhaps that was just what the piece needed to redeem it. After all, Barber's experimentation with exoticism in the orchestra conjures up almost all of the imagery that an audience needs to appreciate the setting of the opera (I do appreciate the fact, however, that John Yohalem acknowledged in his review that listening to this work takes some concentration).
A Rant
It's just that, in my opinion, an audience's imagination is bound to be much more powerful than anything an opera company can cover the stage with. Why not merely suggest the grandeur of Eygpt and Rome? Why use "six barges, twelve horses, four elephants, and 120 Romans,"* when you could use something simpler and more elegant? Why not let the audience do some of the work and involve them mentally? While I appreciate the sheer grandeur and beauty of many of Zeffirelli's productions on a purely skin-deep level, I think that an opera for which the production values are the main attraction misses the point somehow. Shouldn't opera effect audiences through the drama of the music as well, not just assault them visually? Perhaps that is just my minimalist taste. After all, there is a long tradition of grand opera.... I just think it's somewhat frivolous. On the other hand, if that type of grandeur is a draw for audiences, who am I to say that it is frivolous (I am thinking here of the popularity of Zeffirelli's productions at the Metropolitan Opera, especially his La Bohème)?
A Response
In response to Erin's post The Met Opening - Why Barber?: I think she brings up many good points. I agree that the opening of the new Met should have been an epic event in which the company could show off what it could do. Barring that, when I think "American sound", I hear the compositions of Copland, Gershwin, Bernstein, and even the Barber of "Sure on this Shining Night" or "Knoxville, Summer of 1915". The music that contains that "American" idea is one that has a certain intimacy to it, despite its wide-open-plains feeling. That aesthetic would be easily overshadowed by excessive production values; therefore, in my mind that typically "American" sound and aesthetic simply doesn't seem to mesh with the bombastic staging and sets such as those that Zeffirelli provided for Anthony and Cleopatra. Think of the American opera you know a little about now...Aside from The Ghosts of Versailles (which is based on previously written operatic story lines, and which was criticized for being overly excessive in the same way that Anthony and Cleopatra was), I can't think of any American operas which have the scope or subject matter to support such an ornamental production. Granted, I acknowledge that my knowledge on the subject is still limited. Perhaps this is an idea that will evolve as we continue the class...
*Heyman, “A New Opera House,” Samuel Barber: The Composer and his Music, (New York: Oxford University Press, 1992), 446.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
A Whale of a Tale
For the opening of the 1966-1967 season, Rudolf Bing and The Metropolitan Opera commissioned Samuel Barber to write a new piece to celebrate the first season of the opera company in the new house (the house at Lincoln Center we know and love). During his search for a subject, Barber briefly considered but rejected the classic novel Moby-Dick by Herman Melville, saying supposedly that, "an opera that had a lot of whales and water, but no soprano, had a doubtful future."*
Apparently, composer Jake Heggie disagrees.
In May of this year, Heggie's new opera, "Moby-Dick", will premiere at the Dallas opera, starring Ben Heppner as Captain Ahab. Not unlike Anthony and Cleopatra, this production will be the first premiere of a new work to be produced in the Dallas Opera's new location, the Margot and Bill Winspear Opera House at the Dallas Center for the Performing Arts. A lot of energy and faith is being put into this production, and Dallas Opera has teamed up with San Francisco Opera, San Diego Opera, Calgary Opera, and the State Opera of South Australia to co-produce the work. The librettist is Gene Scheer, with whom Jake Heggie has worked on his past few theatrical compositions, including Three Decembers and To Hell and Back, and the production team will also feature Leonard Foglia (director) and Patrick Summers (conductor), both of whom worked with Heggie on his recent compositions: Three Decembers, The End of the Affair, and Dead Man Walking.
So how has Heggie dealt with the problems Barber foresaw in setting the work?
Well, for one, like Anthony and Cleopatra, Scheer and Heggie will try to honor the intentions of the author and the poetry of Melville's language as much as possible** , without being chained to it. Most notably, they have culled some of Ahab's speeches directly from the book. Additionally, Heggie and Scheer have chosen to switch the original beginning and ending of the book, in order to make a more effective story line for the new work, so that the opera now ends with the famous line, "Call me Ishmael". Secondly, there will be a soprano in the work, although she will be playing a pants role (Talise Trevigna will bring the role of the young boy Pip to life). As far as the whales and water are concerned, Heggie has said that they are the problems of the director and designer** but that he feels that the technical capabilities of the new space will allow for an effective staging of the work. One can only hope that this remarkable project will run more smoothly than the premiere of Anthony and Cleopatra.
For more information on the premiere:
Apparently, composer Jake Heggie disagrees.
In May of this year, Heggie's new opera, "Moby-Dick", will premiere at the Dallas opera, starring Ben Heppner as Captain Ahab. Not unlike Anthony and Cleopatra, this production will be the first premiere of a new work to be produced in the Dallas Opera's new location, the Margot and Bill Winspear Opera House at the Dallas Center for the Performing Arts. A lot of energy and faith is being put into this production, and Dallas Opera has teamed up with San Francisco Opera, San Diego Opera, Calgary Opera, and the State Opera of South Australia to co-produce the work. The librettist is Gene Scheer, with whom Jake Heggie has worked on his past few theatrical compositions, including Three Decembers and To Hell and Back, and the production team will also feature Leonard Foglia (director) and Patrick Summers (conductor), both of whom worked with Heggie on his recent compositions: Three Decembers, The End of the Affair, and Dead Man Walking.
So how has Heggie dealt with the problems Barber foresaw in setting the work?
Well, for one, like Anthony and Cleopatra, Scheer and Heggie will try to honor the intentions of the author and the poetry of Melville's language as much as possible** , without being chained to it. Most notably, they have culled some of Ahab's speeches directly from the book. Additionally, Heggie and Scheer have chosen to switch the original beginning and ending of the book, in order to make a more effective story line for the new work, so that the opera now ends with the famous line, "Call me Ishmael". Secondly, there will be a soprano in the work, although she will be playing a pants role (Talise Trevigna will bring the role of the young boy Pip to life). As far as the whales and water are concerned, Heggie has said that they are the problems of the director and designer** but that he feels that the technical capabilities of the new space will allow for an effective staging of the work. One can only hope that this remarkable project will run more smoothly than the premiere of Anthony and Cleopatra.
For more information on the premiere:
- See the short interview with Jake Heggie about the new work and several interview sound clips here: **Audio Files: A Conversation with Moby-Dick Composer Jake Heggie
- or see the Dallas Opera site here
Monday, February 8, 2010
Operas with Makeovers
There was a lot of discussion in class this week about modernizing operatic works and, since it is a topic that is near and dear to my heart, I thought I would add my two cents.
A few people mentioned in class that they fell in love with opera because they saw very traditional, beautiful versions of an opera. For me, it was the opposite. For me, it wasn't until I saw the 2005 Salzburg Festspiel version of La Traviata that I became hooked on opera, specifically the possibilities inherent in updating opera. For anyone who doesn't know the production, it is a modernized version starring Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon as the starstruck couple, and it was successful in using a wide open, minimalist set, a giant clock, and the use of specific color choices to highlight the main themes of the work (For a taste, try this clip...). Granted, I would argue that unlike many of the other Salzburg Festival productions, this adaptation was very tasteful in the way that it updated the work. Clearly, there is a line that can be crossed between an effective modernization and an adaptation of a work that hinges on the simple shock value.
I'm sure we can all think of productions that fall into the latter category. For me, a good example would be the production that the Salzburg Festival did in 2007 of Zaide/Adama (What can I say? That festival is known for pushing the envelope a bit...) which combined Mozart's unfinished opera Zaide, about the love of a harem slave girl for a Christian exile (it was a sketch for what would eventually become The Abduction from the Seraglio), with a new work by Israeli composer Chaya Czernowin about the impossible love between an Israeli woman and a Palestinian man. Personally, I think the concept was brilliant: bring modern political ideas to Mozart's work and allow them to influence our reaction to it. However, the execution was gratuitously violent and in this production the staging overwhelmed the music entirely. I felt that the composer's voices didn't have a chance; they were obliterated by the sensationalist staging of the work.
This problem of honoring the composer's ideas came up in class when we were discussing the ways in which the 2005 "Live on Broadway" version of Candide altered the original work so as to cut out much of the original import and cynicism. This line between honoring the composer's and librettist's original intentions and updating a work in order to attract a new audience is tricky.
Another recent example of an updated production that didn't fare so well, was this year's Tosca at the Metropolitan opera house. I won't go into it too much. I'll just say that the production attempted to turn Tosca into a comedy in many ways, ways that disregarded the intent of the original work, complete with a Spoletta who tripped every time he came onstage, gratuitous vulgarity, and a Tosca who never actually jumped. At the performance I saw, people behind me laughed when Tosca stabbed Scarpia...[For a venomous review of the production, try this one.]
Not all adaptations are bad though. Many of them succeed in bringing to light some part of a work that was previously hidden, or making a connection between the opera and the audience's collective experiences (For Example, the 2006 Parisian version of Candide). So, yes... it is easy to adapt something badly. One has to be careful; one has to find the balance. But I would argue that modernizing or adapting operas is an effective way to reintroduce them to a public that has not grown up with an affinity for opera in the same way an older generation may have. I would also argue that in our modern (or postmodern, Olivia?) world it seems that all press is good press. Tosca created controversy, but that meant that people were discussing it long after it closed. Couldn't that be a slightly different measure of success? Art should communicate something; it should inspire feelings, even if those feelings are negative.
A few people mentioned in class that they fell in love with opera because they saw very traditional, beautiful versions of an opera. For me, it was the opposite. For me, it wasn't until I saw the 2005 Salzburg Festspiel version of La Traviata that I became hooked on opera, specifically the possibilities inherent in updating opera. For anyone who doesn't know the production, it is a modernized version starring Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazon as the starstruck couple, and it was successful in using a wide open, minimalist set, a giant clock, and the use of specific color choices to highlight the main themes of the work (For a taste, try this clip...). Granted, I would argue that unlike many of the other Salzburg Festival productions, this adaptation was very tasteful in the way that it updated the work. Clearly, there is a line that can be crossed between an effective modernization and an adaptation of a work that hinges on the simple shock value.
I'm sure we can all think of productions that fall into the latter category. For me, a good example would be the production that the Salzburg Festival did in 2007 of Zaide/Adama (What can I say? That festival is known for pushing the envelope a bit...) which combined Mozart's unfinished opera Zaide, about the love of a harem slave girl for a Christian exile (it was a sketch for what would eventually become The Abduction from the Seraglio), with a new work by Israeli composer Chaya Czernowin about the impossible love between an Israeli woman and a Palestinian man. Personally, I think the concept was brilliant: bring modern political ideas to Mozart's work and allow them to influence our reaction to it. However, the execution was gratuitously violent and in this production the staging overwhelmed the music entirely. I felt that the composer's voices didn't have a chance; they were obliterated by the sensationalist staging of the work.
This problem of honoring the composer's ideas came up in class when we were discussing the ways in which the 2005 "Live on Broadway" version of Candide altered the original work so as to cut out much of the original import and cynicism. This line between honoring the composer's and librettist's original intentions and updating a work in order to attract a new audience is tricky.
Another recent example of an updated production that didn't fare so well, was this year's Tosca at the Metropolitan opera house. I won't go into it too much. I'll just say that the production attempted to turn Tosca into a comedy in many ways, ways that disregarded the intent of the original work, complete with a Spoletta who tripped every time he came onstage, gratuitous vulgarity, and a Tosca who never actually jumped. At the performance I saw, people behind me laughed when Tosca stabbed Scarpia...[For a venomous review of the production, try this one.]
Not all adaptations are bad though. Many of them succeed in bringing to light some part of a work that was previously hidden, or making a connection between the opera and the audience's collective experiences (For Example, the 2006 Parisian version of Candide). So, yes... it is easy to adapt something badly. One has to be careful; one has to find the balance. But I would argue that modernizing or adapting operas is an effective way to reintroduce them to a public that has not grown up with an affinity for opera in the same way an older generation may have. I would also argue that in our modern (or postmodern, Olivia?) world it seems that all press is good press. Tosca created controversy, but that meant that people were discussing it long after it closed. Couldn't that be a slightly different measure of success? Art should communicate something; it should inspire feelings, even if those feelings are negative.
Glitter and be Gay: A Modern Mad Scene
In Leonard Bernstein's work Candide, he used many different styles of music in order to convey the satirical nature of Voltaire's play, on which the work is based. For example, as Ms. Leonard suggested, the twelve-tone row on which the theme of the kings is based, is used to poke fun at the (outdated) musical tradition of serialism.
We have all heard Cunegonde's aria "Glitter and be Gay" ad nauseum, so it wasn't until this week, when we were discussing the deeper layer of meaning in the work, that I realized that the melodrama portrayed in the aria is a satirical tool. On a political level, the aria (and the character of Cunegonde herself) can be seen as a criticism of American institution of Capitalism (and the evils of it). However, on a musical level, the aria is, in effect, a nod to the many Bel Canto mad scenes written by composers such as Gaetano Donizetti and Vincenzo Bellini. There are a few aspects of the aria that suggest this connection:
In closing, I offer this:
We have all heard Cunegonde's aria "Glitter and be Gay" ad nauseum, so it wasn't until this week, when we were discussing the deeper layer of meaning in the work, that I realized that the melodrama portrayed in the aria is a satirical tool. On a political level, the aria (and the character of Cunegonde herself) can be seen as a criticism of American institution of Capitalism (and the evils of it). However, on a musical level, the aria is, in effect, a nod to the many Bel Canto mad scenes written by composers such as Gaetano Donizetti and Vincenzo Bellini. There are a few aspects of the aria that suggest this connection:
- The first thing we hear in "Glitter and be Gay" is a mournful trill by a solo woodwind. The use of such an obligato instrument can be seen throughout the Bel Canto genre. For instance, the use of the flute (originally the glass harmonica....if you want to hear something really creepy, go listen to this!) in Lucia's mad scene in Donizetti's Lucia di Lammermoor sheds light on the state of mind of the character, while, at other times, acting as the other voice(s) in her head. The obligato instrument becomes, in effect, a scene partner for the devastated soprano, often engaging in musical "dialogue". One can hear this parodied by Bernstein in the last section of coloratura in "Glitter and be Gay" where the solo woodwind again precedes the soprano, offering a phrase of her original allegro melody, which the soprano echoes with a variation (You can hear this at 5:49 on the clip below).
- Secondly, Bernstein portrays Cunegonde's character musically at two emotional extremes: devastated and ecstatic. First, we hear the woodwind dialoguing with the soprano over woeful, extended chromatic lines in the strings. Then at "And yet, of course, I rather like to revel...", the brass enters and suddenly the mood shifts to the other extreme entirely without so much as a measure of transition. This stark shift in mood shed's light on Cunegonde's unstable mental state perfectly. This is further underlined by the clever use of the constrast in timbres. They highlight Cunegonde's assertion that instead of being "basely tearful" (Listen for the woodwinds at 2:44), she will be "bright and cheerful" (listen for the change in timbre after those words: 2:50). Her descent from a high pitched frenzy back down to the original mood of the piece (and into an orchestra interlude that is punctuated by Cunegonde's melodramatic speech) brings home this point all the more. If done effectively, by the end of this piece, I think the audience should feel slightly bipolar.
- Furthermore, Cunegonde's unstable mental state is described by both the driving tempo of the coloratura sections and the hysterical nature (both in the funny sense and the true sense of the word) of the coloratura itself. Especially in the final section where the vocal line comes unglued from the rhythmic assertions of the orchestra (around 5:35), one starts to see Cunegonde's facade fall apart.
- Another way in which Bernstein pokes fun at the Bel Canto traditions is found in the tongue-in-cheek nature of the entire piece. We are supposed to believe that Cunegonde is bemoaning her fate as a bird kept in a "gilded cage"; however, it appears that she is more than a little satisfied with the perks of that position ("I'll take their diamond necklace!"). In a mad scene such as the ones in Anna Bolena or Lucia di Lammermoor, it is the moments when the characters come back to reality that are the most heart wrenching (Thank you Ms. Thomas!). However, in "Glitter and be Gay", it is debatable whether the tonally minor sections (that section of melodramatic speech doesn't even have the added heightening of pitch...) are Cunegonde's reality and the frantic major sections are her madness, or vice versa. Within that facade and ambiguity lies the satire.
In closing, I offer this:
Sunday, February 7, 2010
First things first....
First, in answer to the hypothetical question, "Could a man play Cunegonde?", there is this:
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