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Seattle Opera’s “Fidelio” Will Leave You Shaken and Stirred

FIdelio
FIdelio
FIdelio
FIdelio

Greer Grimsley as the psychopathic Don Pizarro in Seattle Opera's Fidelio (Photo © Elise Bakketun)

Clifton Forbis as Florestan, Christiane Libor as Leonore, and Seattle Opera Chorus and supernumeraries in Fidelio (Photo © Elise Bakketun)

John Tessier as Jaquino and Anya Matanovič as Marzelline in Seattle Opera's Fidelio (Photo © Elise Bakketun)

Ric Furman as Florestan and Marcy Stonikas as Leonore in Seattle Opera's Fidelio (Photo © Elise Bakketun)

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Seattle Opera’s Fidelio is a must-see production, and there are only four more chances (it closes Saturday, October 27). Not only are the performers superbly cast and directed as both singers and actors, but lighting and musical direction are also stellar. The whole adds up to a remarkable, moving production which leaves the opera-goer shaken and stirred.

The choice of using Beethoven’s Leonore Overture No. 3, rather than the much shorter Fidelio overture, sets the stage for this production with the juxtaposition of noble music and bleak set. We are faced with a tall mesh fence topped with barbed wire, while at the side are scaffolding towers with searchlights on top. It’s night, and as the overture continues, in a performance under the conducting of Asher Fisch as beautiful, meaningful, and smooth as I’ve ever heard it, a light sweeps slowly along the fence and back, over and over. It’s chilling.

The lingering sense of this production is of characterization. Stage director Chris Alexander has encouraged each of the major performers to plumb the depths of their characters, so we see and hear complex people making complex decisions pushed by forces not necessarily under their control.

Leonore, the heroine (in male guise as the jailer’s assistant, Fidelio), is sung in all but one performance by the great German soprano Christiane Libor. In her Seattle debut Saturday night, we saw her trying to walk the fine line between winning the jailer’s approval and thus the chance to get into the worst depths of the jail where she hopes to find her husband, Florestan; and not over-encouraging the advances of the jailer’s daughter, Marzelline, who is convinced she is in love with him. At the same time Leonore is desperately frightened lest she not find her husband, or find him too late. With a big but agile voice, Libor was eloquent in every musical line and every gesture.

For Sunday’s performance only, Leonore was sung by recent Seattle Opera Young Artist Marcy Stonikas, who also undertook the title role in Turandot last August. Stonikas’ voice is a tad smaller than Libor’s but she also has the big-voiced agility to encompass this musically difficult role with apparent ease. The experienced Libor and the newcomer Stonikas worked on the singing and characterization together, and it showed in a highly satisfactory role debut here for Stonikas.

It’s typical of general director Speight Jenkins to nurture young artists, and he is adept at seeing potential. In this production there were no fewer than four from the Seattle Opera Young Artists program, including two prisoners and also soprano Anya Matanovič as an artless Marzelline, excellently portrayed.

As Florestan, Clifton Forbis made the most of his vocally difficult role with his fine big tenor, accomplishing it with ease and acting with conviction, though it is hard for a well-padded man to appear starving. Forbis had expected to sing all six performances, but on Thursday his understudy gave such a compelling performance in the dress rehearsal that Jenkins decided he should have the opportunity to sing the role Sunday afternoon.

Ric Furman is another Young Artists Program graduate, this time with Cincinnati Opera, and Sunday appears to have been his first big role with a national opera company. Another big voice of beautiful timbre, he also had no difficulty with Florestan’s vocal part, and his acting was the more convincing because, being lanky, he had an easier time looking starved.

With bass Arthur Woodley singing Rocco the jailer, Rocco came across as a decent man, concerned to keep his job but browbeaten and bullied by the jail warden, Don Pizarro; happy to see his daughter marry Fidelio; but nervous about ever stepping over the line in his duties, drinking on the sly to cope. Woodley gave a masterly performance, his ambivalence always there but never overdone.

Bass-baritone Greer Grimsley took on the villain of the piece, Pizarro. In his hands, Pizarro came across as a ruthless, violent man, his behavior with Rocco threatening and unpredictable, with fear for his precarious climb to power and rage at his perceived enemies never far from the surface. Contrasted with the rich warm bass of Woodley, Grimsley made his equally deep voice hard, stentorian, dictatorial.

The last character to appear, the new government minister who releases all the prisoners and has Pizarro arrested, was Kevin Short as Don Fernando. He also has a rich, warm, powerful bass-baritone to match all the other voices, while tenor John Tessier does well as Marcelline’s would-be swain Jaquino.

The prisoners’ two big choruses brought a lump to the throat, first so despairing but with joy at seeing the sky, and second with unbelieving ecstasy at freedom as families searched frantically among them to find husbands, sons or lovers.

Alexander’s direction brought out all this detail and much more, but never laid it on with a heavy hand. The brutality of the jail was made obvious with a few incidents, while Beethoven’s high-minded music sharpened the contrast. Duane Schuler’s lighting throughout enhanced the action, while Fisch’s musical direction made it all the more compelling. At the start of the second act, both Saturday and Sunday, Fisch received a prolonged ovation, on Saturday with bravos as well.

Turandot, the Music of The Nightingale, and Magic of Chinoiserie

Seattle Opera’s Turandot runs from August 4 to 18 at McCaw Hall.

In Puccini’s opera Turandot, based first on a play by Carlo Gozzi, with its roots in a much older Persian tale, you have one of the most popular operas of all time, about a formidable Chinese princess who tests her suitors, with the failures (and everyone fails) executed. While opera’s vocal meritocracy has long depended upon colorblind casting for many roles, it’s also true that most Turandots have not been Chinese, or Asian. (Seattle Opera’s sopranos, Lori Phillips and Marcy Stonikas, are from Rhode Island and Illinois, respectively.)

But audiences have generally agreed, except in particular cases, that skin color, along with size and age in opera, is “more of a guideline”–what matters is how well the performer sings and acts the role. Unless the character is supposed to be a specific hue, the colors of the voice matter more, in theory.

So imagine the perplexity of Moisés Kaufman and Spring Awakening‘s creative duo, Duncan Sheik and Steven Sater, when their new musical The Nightingale managed to ire the Asian acting community. A retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s fable, about the Chinese emperor enthralled by first a real nightingale and then a mechanical version, The Nightingale, as workshopped at La Jolla Playhouse, featured a multiracial cast that was notably short on Asian actors, let alone specifically Chinese talent.

At a talkback (scheduled to address the blowback), Kaufman emphasized that this was, after all, a fable, set in a “mythic China”–a defense that did not seem to persuade an audience literate in cultural appropriation. After all, it would seem to advance the case for a strangely selective blindness if you include Chinese scenery and miss the people who should be in it, even if they are portrayed by an actually multiracial cast (as opposed to mainly Caucasian actors and a lonely hyphen-American).

That said, Andersen’s fable can be read many ways (including, reductively, as an allegory of his love for Jenny Lind), but is not usually hailed a pathbreaking work of cultural anthropology. Steven Sater told James Hebert that “we had a workshop that was fully Asian, and it’s not appropriate to the piece (we’ve written). It’s not about Asia.” It’s then that Sater brings up the term “chinoiserie.”

You could translate “chinoiserie” as “Chinese…ish,” if you want. It’s a cultural form of infatuation with the transfer student–in retrospect it may come to seem childish and superficial. But initially, there’s a flush of novelty, a flash of curiosity, and a fleshing out of another inner life through trial and error, mostly error. (In a similar way, knock-offs of products are usually not very good, most fail, and a few develop into something so good they rival the original–witness Japan’s whisky.)

Opera records many of these cross-cultural erotic attractions, sometimes intra-European, sometimes extra-, and the lesson is usually binary: Either the attractive foreigner is in basic ways just like us (Romance!), or in equally fundamental ways, not (Tragedy!). It’s not just about drama in scenic pagodas. Here’s conductor Asher Fisch on the ways Puccini worked the pentatonic and hijaz modes into Turandot‘s score, while reserving heart-pounding harmonies for the big emotions. (For Puccini, down deep everyone was an Italian opera fan, and history does seem to support his thesis.)

While they look to have so much in common, the hurdle that The Nightingale seems to face that Turandot doesn’t is that the The Nightingale was born today, while Turandot was born yesterday. Turandot is inextricably part of culture, an object with history; outside of your personal immersion (or not) in its story, it’s much like a grandparent’s faded photograph of that long-ago heartbreaker.

Its failings (three spring to mind, Ping, Pang, and Pong, which have to be carefully contextualized as commedia rather than casually racist) are those of another generation. It’s not so authentic in its depiction of China as in its failure to do so (authenticity is the more prized the more we struggle to identify ourselves–as cultures homogenize, cultural authenticity becomes a fetish, where liberals stash their conservatism). It is successful because “ice princess” turns out to be an archetype: Either you have tried to win someone’s heart, or you have been caught between your own head and heart’s contradictory urgings. (The true ice princess is not unfeeling, but feeling and frozen.)

Today, in La Jolla, you can’t simply wave a wand and call your China “mythic”–not because anyone in China knows or cares, necessarily, but because there are so many Americans of Chinese descent who bristle at it, and are willing to remind you that they’re in the audience.

Frankly, this is why mythic is adjective best applied by succeeding generations. Art is born in the here and now, out of material and immaterial phenomena, and it is in conversations like this that you get to see why it matters that people make art, rather than simply ingest the classics. Art may be a list of the problems of our time, but at least they are our problems.