Rants and Raves from the Front Row at Santa Fe Opera by Meche Kroop

New York City resident and opera fan Meche Kroop doesn't beat around the bush when she talks about opera. When it's good she'll tell you about it... when it isn't, she'll tell you about that, too. Santa Fe Opera is known to be among the best around, so we were particularly interested to hear her take on the summer season that just ended. Here's what she had to say about it!

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The sky shows you everything from the most radiant sunsets to the darkest thunder clouds, but the air is always fragrant with juniper. Breezes blow across the stage, fluttering anything unattached. People flock here year after year to partake in the magic atmosphere of Santa Fe, and this year was no different for me.

Nestled between the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and the Jemez Peaks, the opera house is a wonder in and of itself. This year I had the pleasure of seeing every opera the company was producing this season. First prize must be awarded to Madama Butterfly. British director Lee Blakely made his SFO debut and so effective was he that I never want to see this opera again, lest I impair the memory of this one. Blakely conceives the story just as I do, not as a love story but rather as a tale of a love-sick teenager and a jingoistic child abuser. The casting helped a great deal. Brandon Jovanovich, in excellent voice, towered over petite Kelly Kaduce, a thrilling soprano, thus further emphasizing her juvenile vulnerability and placing it in contrast to his powerful presence. The acting was totally convincing and therefore everything worked psychologically as well. Keith Jameson turned in his customary excellent performance as the slimy Goro. Prince Yamadoro was not portrayed as a clown, as it often is, but given quite some dignity by Matthew Hanscom, thereby underscoring Butterfly’s unrealistic devotion to Pinkerton. Butterfly’s suicide (accurately represented in this production by a totally realistic slashing of an artery in the neck — accurate at least according to Japanese tradition) was not merely a ritualistic honor suicide, but rather a psychologically valid act of anger at her faithless lover... prefaced by much chair-throwing! Little Trouble does not fly into the arms of his heretofore unseen father; rather he steps back in fear. Much of the audience was sobbing at the end, this writer included. The cast was further supported by mezzo Elizabeth DeShong as Suzuki and James Westman as Sharpless, who both shined in their respective roles.

On the second night I was delightfully entertained by Christopher Alden’s production of Offenbach’s Les Contes d’Hoffman. My feelings about Alden’s “concepts” have varied from opera to opera. I greatly disliked his church basement AA meeting concept for Don Giovanni at New York City Opera but this time I think he got it right, setting the story in a German Bierhalle of appropriate vintage. The wine-soaked and dissipated Hoffman (a role to which Paul Groves gave his all, both vocally and dramatically) illustrated his tales on stages created by upturned Bierhalle benches. Characters in the stories were portrayed by denizens of the Bierhalle. Kate Lindsey gave a vocally lustrous and choreographically adept portrayal of his Muse and Wayne Tigges stepped in at a late date to inhabit Hoffmann’s nemeses. Erin Wall has done better work in the past than she did as Hoffman’s various loves but Jill Grove was certainly acceptable as Antonia’s mother. Not everyone “got” what Alden was after but I must say I was royally entertained… at least until the ending. I have always thought that the whole point of this story was that love comes and goes but that art endures. Art is continuous, unending, always faithful. After all, don't we still see Hoffman’s stories in today's world? So I have to ask why on earth Alden asked everyone to burn Hoffman’s manuscripts in a flaming punchbowl at the end of the opera? To me, that simply belittled and ruined the entire concept of the opera.

The third night was equally entertaining as the second. I allowed myself to be swept along by the delightful Britten comedy Albert Herring, ably directed by Paul Curran. The title role was charmingly sung by Alek Schrader, a young tenor who made a huge impression in the Met National Council Auditions back in 2007, and has gone on to make quite a name for himself. As the rather bumbling Albert, he showed true comic flair. Christine Brewer fully inhabited the role of Lady Billows, a role that made good use of her amply proportioned body as well as her amply proportioned voice. Kate Lindsey shone again as Nancy with Joshua Hopkins as her well-sung and well-acted boyfriend. Judith Christin as Albert’s mother and Jill Grove as Lady Billows’ housekeeper Florence were joined by a very primly humorous Celena Shafer as the schoolteacher. The role of the vicar was taken by a baritone apprentice from New York named Jonathan Michie who was astonishingly accomplished. I hope to hear more of him. All contributed beautifully to the success of this ensemble work, a very difficult opera to put together even with the best and most talented singing actors.

Nothing is worse than being in an audience that is having fun when you are not so the fourth night of my opera week left me sitting in the front row just seething. Tim Albery’s adaptation of Mozart’s classic opera, The Magic Flute, is the same one that left me annoyed a few years ago but I’d decided to give it another chance to win me over. No go! In spite of any real life connection, onstage Charles Castronovo’s Tamino and Ekaterina Siurina’s Pamina had zero chemistry. The costumes were completely ridiculous: Pamina was dressed for a 1950s sock hop, the Three Ladies and the Queen of the Night were clothed in Elizabethan attire, the “police force” guarding Sarastro’s temple were dressed as Nazi SS Officers, the male chorus wore frock coats and powdered wigs from the 18th century while the female chorus looked like ante-bellum slaves, and Papageno wore cutoffs, a baseball cap and yellow Keds. To top it off, the Three Spirits were bald Buddhist monks! With all that distraction who could focus on the voices? The set was ugly and plain with plywood silhouettes of animals. The dialogue was spoken in English with each performer struggling to maintain cohesion through his or her own dialect or accent. Particularly grating on the ears were the strong Italian inflections of Andrea Silvestrelli (Sarastro) who, in this case, also tended to speak with his hands. Sadly his singing the night I was there was also incredibly unmusical. Searching for one kind thing to say, let me compliment the performance of Renee Tatum as one of the Three Ladies. She impressed me at her Lindemann Recital and impressed me again here.

Now, what about the last night which showcased Spratlin’s long-neglected opera, Life is a Dream? My 19th Century ears were wishing it had stayed neglected. Calderon de la Barca’s 16th century masterpiece La Vida es Sueño would have made a gorgeous zarzuela but instead it has been dragged kicking and screaming into 20th Century serialism: frantic jagged vocal lines that assault the ear and nothing melodic to hang onto. Under these circumstances I think it would be best to say nothing about the voices. I will say, however, that Kevin Newbury directed the action in a meaningful way so that the story was able to shine through. David Korins did a wonderful job as set designer, with the exception of some puzzling railroad crossing beams hanging from the ceiling and Jessica Jahn’s costumes were indeed stunning. As my ears closed to the so-called music, my eyes at least were delighted by watching the beauty of the production, thus ending the opera week on a not-so-disastrous note.