Russian ingenuity in L’Elisir d’amore: from stark tragedy to opera buffa

Print this Article

Gaetano Donizetti, November 29, 1767 – April 8, 1848

This performance of L’Elisir d’amore by Gaetano Donizetti; libretto by Felice Romano was staged by Ludmila Noletova at the Moscow Theater named after Konstantin Stanislavsky and Vladimir Memirovich-Danchenko on May 28, 2001.

To most of today’s opera critics in the Western world, performing an opera in two languages in the same production is suspect, almost subversive. Fortunately for the audience gathered at the Moscow Aca demic Music Theater for Gaetano Donizetti’s L’Elisir d’amore on a May evening in 2001 there were no critical detractors present for this bilingual presentation. On that evening, in that historic theater named after Konstantin Stanislavsky and Vladimir Nemirovich-Danchenko, the audience was allowed to enjoy L’Elisir without any bothersome out bursts of disapproval. The production, bordering on the experimental and slightly daring, was carried off with sufficient panache to do away with any misgivings the audience might have had.

This production of L’Elisir, with its recitatives dashed off in Russ ian and the main arias piquantly rolled out in Italian, was so delightful in its approach and so well thought-out by stage director Ludmila Nale tova, that her approach dovetailed smoothly with Donizetti’s gifted mu sical invention and librettist Felice Romani’s deftly humorous text. It became apparent as the performance progressed that the Russian and Italian text, each in its own way, had sparked a descriptive and colorful interpretation filled with tender diminutives highlighting the good-na tured personalities of the comedy’s two main protagonists – the gawky Nemorino and the saucy Adina.

Since the bilingual aspects of the production seemed to present no acting barriers for stage director Naletova and her cast, they were able to project across the footlights the most important elements of opera buffa — laughter through music and skillful pacing in delivery. They created a seamless energy that flowed easily from scene to scene, reach ing its peak in Dulcamara’s entrance aria with its delightfully enticing rhythms accompanied by Naletova’s amusing sight gags.

In opera buffa, both the characters on stage or the spectators in the audience love to be hoodwinked, and Dulcamara’s persona is the clas sic buffa perpetrator of this kind of devilish deception. Dulcamara’s quick-witted cataloguing of the health benefits of his ready-made po tion keeps the villagers spellbound: If only they would buy just one bot tle of his elixir, they would soon discover that among the dozens of cures it provides, it can make the paralytic walk, destroy all rats and bugs infesting their homes and, for any matrons in the crowd, quickly restore their youth!

Right off, Naletova recognized what an artistic prize she had in Dimitrii Stepanovich. The singer, big in stature and with a rotund voice, had all the stage expertise to carry off Naletova’s inventive stage busi ness as well as the composer’s and librettist’s intent to get down on pa per for their impressive patter song as many words as possible to be sung in the shortest possible amount of time. Stepanovich sailed straight through Dulcamara’s comical shenanigans and joining him were a few shady “locals” recruited for the specific purpose of demon strating to the villagers the elixir’s wonderful healing powers. Three cu rates side-by-side, dressed in rose-colored cassocks topped with wide brimmed hats, were patiently tapping out their pathway to the aria’s andante rhythm, oblivious, no doubt, to the onlookers’ empathy. A young woman, hovering over a crutch, bounced around making sure everyone saw her bad leg. On a riser, above the crowd’s view, was a band of grieving widows surrounding a makeshift coffin in which a body kept bobbing up, but somehow never on Dulcamara’s cue. Never theless, the villagers got the idea that this Lazarus was soon to rise from the dead. With one swig of Dulcamara’s almighty elixir, the curates dropped their walking sticks, threw away their dark glasses and walked off officiously to church. The young woman, throwing her crutch to the ground, danced a little tarantella. And the man who had been given up for dead walked away with his bevy of smiling widows.

In this production, Roman Muravitsky, our Nemorino, and Hibla Gerzmava, our Adina, performed to the best of their vocal and emotive talents, their heart-warming antics buoyed by Donizetti’s beautiful lyri cal gifts all the way to the “they lived happily ever after” ending we were promised all along.

Two memorable musical moments in particular stand out in this opera. One occurs in the midst of the Act One finale which is filled with jaunting, almost giddy melodies for Adina, Nemorino and Belcore, an other of Adina’s suitors. Donizetti slows down the opera’s headlong course to give us a truly beautiful musical moment in the best of Italian Romantic Opera tradition. This is “Adina credimi,” Nemorino’s tender plea to the headstrong Adina to wait just a single day for his love to ful ly blossom — something he believes will happen after drinking a bottle of the famous elixir. In the span of only sixteen measures, Donizetti’s musical interlude shows us a character in full dimension, a touching country bumpkin who succeeds in overcoming his clumsiness.

Near the end of Act Two, Donizetti takes the “beautiful moment” created by Nemorino’s plea in Act One one step further and capitalizes on it, by giving the bel canto world one of its most endearing tenor arias, “Una furtiva lagrima.” The romanza comes right after the scene in which Adina, seeing Nemorino happily surrounded by the town’s young ladies, who have just heard that a rich uncle has bequeathed him a large sum of lire, are vying for his attention. But Adina, not knowing the rea son for their sudden affection for her tenacious bumbler, sheds a quiet tear in a jealous reaction to her awakening love. Here Donizetti fills the aria with pathos and warmth, expressing the tune by way of a devilish ly challenging legato, so that the listener hears it being sung in one con tinuous intense line until a run of soft, supplicating notes brings Nemorino to finally rest his case.

At this point, a slight problem arose for Naletova. Her tenor, Ro man Muravitsky, a fine actor, displayed a very musical voice, but one that lacked some of the rich overtones this piece requires. Naletova in stinctively, or so it seemed, fell back on her original concept of always presenting the opera as a whole, encouraging Muravitsky to sing to his strengths and give a clear vocal rendition emphasizing the text and al lowing the tenor to project to the audience not only a well-conceived Nemorino, but a most believable one. By doing this Naletova proved again how cogent and expressive the Russians are when it comes to making opera a complete and most satisfying experience.

Print this Article

In Khovanshchina the chorus triumphs

Print this Article

In February 2002 the Kirov* brought two operas to Washington’s Kennedy Center: Musorgsky’s great opera Khovanshchina and Verdi’s Macbeth.

The unexpected is always welcome in opera. The underlying qual ity desired in every performance is surprise coupled with elements of the unknown. Perhaps it comes in a particular scene, a singer’s charac terization, or in a small vocal detail that produces an unexpected tone. For me, this moment arrived in the second half of Act Three of Musorgsky’s Khovanshchina as the Streltsy chorus representing the old guard of Russian soldiers, pours its heart out with a multitude of emo tions. The roaring drunkenness of the Streltsy, who are at the same time being berated by their womenfolk for their behavior; their suspicion of outsiders; and their all-consuming fear of being defeated by Tsar Peter’s forces culminate in their yielding to the wishes of their leader, Prince Ivan Khovansky, that they return to their homes, since Peter’s troops may be too strong an adversary for them to overcome.

Opera choruses run the gamut of uses for composers: some like choral asides to accompany the main action as in Lucia’s Mad Scene in Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor, while others prefer to have their chorus introduce the opera sometimes with pithy comments, or just to create a somber mood that will prevail for the rest of the opera as in Vin cenzo Bellini’s I Capuleti e i Montecchi. In Khovanshchina, Mus orgsky deftly designed his chorus to play one of the major roles along side other main characters such as Marfa, one of the Old Believers, or Dosifei, their leader. The composer goes one step beyond the decora tive and the contemplative to create a chorus that is molded into a col lective character where many sing as one and often take the lead in mov ing the story ahead. It is here that Mussorgsky’s musical genius soars above that of many others.

In the scene mentioned above, the Streltsy march in singing in a hearty and raucous stupor, taunting their wives for challenging their persistent carousing. Here, the male chorus expresses a boastful vocal audacity, taking a “might is right” stance. The women, not fearing their overbearing husbands, assert their displeasure in rich womanly tones, fighting out the battle of the sexes made ever so clear in Musorgsky’s increasingly visceral counterpoint.

No sooner has this tumult taken place, that Kuzka, a Strelets muskateer, enters and tells the mob, all the while, accompanying him self on the balalaika, that gossip along with their constant harping turns everything upside down, topples the mighty and affects men and women alike – a sentiment of equality that the men distrust.

In a musical mood that swings from vocal bantering to reflective trepidation, the Scribe rushes in and breathlessly relates to the crown that Tsar Peter’s soldiers are quickly approaching the Streltsy’s quarters. As he tells his story in quick, pulsating rhythms underscored by the or chestra’s deepening and forbidding tones, the Streltsy come to realize that their fate is sealed and make a final appeal to their leader, prince Khovansky, to save them. To their surprise and horror, he tells them they cannot fight the Tsar’s powerful forces and to go home and wait for the inevitable.

It is at this moment that Musorgsky’s innate theatrical sense takes hold and reaches a stirring climax. He allows the Streltsy to chant the same prayer for salvation as do the Old Believers, disregarding any no tion that God would prefer one group’s suffering over another.

In his notes for the Valery Gergiev 1991 recording of Khovan shchina, Rober Layton says “…a new musical element is to be found in the choruses of the Old Believers for which Mousorgsky drew on the musical language of the Russian Orthodox Church … he encapsu lates the spirit of the Orthodox Church with as much power as he en shrines the very soul of the Russiasn language…” Here Layton miss es a crucial point: Musorgsky gives the Streltsy the same powerful refrains as the Old Believers, but intensifies the scene’s ending by changing the boastful Streltsy into the supplicating Streltsy, creating in the last few moments a chorus of heavenly tones that seem to float out of the theater and right into the incense-laden recesses of an Orthodox church where the priests can be heard chanting the same glorious mu sic. What a remarkable accomplishment it is to have such beautiful musical phrases mesh so naturally with a strong, traditional belief and then to end with a dash of democracy by putting the Streltsy, the Old Believers and the clergy on an equal musical plane. Khovanshchina is often called a national musical drama and even Musorgsky referred to it as “folk drama,” leaving no doubt that this work makes the Russian people the star.

* Whereas the famed Petersburg theater is now again called the Mariin sky, the company itself is still known as the Kirov.

Print this Article

Macbeth – intimate dialogue makes opera grand

Print this Article

Often the Russians are able to delve deeper into an opera score and find a different slant to the composer’s intent which other companies do not always perceive. Thus it was when Artistic Director and Conductor Valery Gergiev, and Stage Director David McVicar, brought the Kirov Opera’s new production of Verdi’s Macbeth to the Kennedy Center. Some producers do not see the moments of intimate dialogue depicting the covert plottings between Macbeth and his Lady as a force equal to the musically-charged finale of Act One. There we find the court, hor rified on learning of King Duncan’s murder, raising its voice in a tremendous fff and then dropping to a reflective ppp in which Verdi combines the court’s anxiety about who the new king will be with the most imploring plea to Heaven for mercy ever to be found in any of his operas.

As powerfully as this finale strikes us, it is the preceding duet be tween Macbeth and his Lady which permeates their dank and musty quarters. The duet comes right after Macbeth imagines seeing the dag ger which will lead him to murder King Duncan and then, after the deed is done, return quickly to rejoin his wife. Here, Verdi and his librettist, Francesco Maria Piave, combine poetics with uneasy musical undercur rents following Verdi’s implicit stage directions that the duet “… must be projected in a hushed and dark voice, except for some outbursts clearly marked “with full voice.” The Kirov’s production clearly shows up the difference between its vocally hushed approach and the mixed loud and soft dynamics that many other productions are prone to take even when the score is not marked in that way. The Russians, in their unwavering respect for Verdi, take him at his word and do not compromise his intentions. The duet, couched in secretive, hushed tones, sweeps the audience along, making it privy to the couple’s dia bolical plotting. As we listen to their revelations, we are jolted to dis cover that this is the first time the ill-fated duo is voicing their evil in tentions and, along with them, we experience an unsettling sensation: no matter how often we may have heard this duet in the past, we grasp anew how singular an opportunity this is to eavesdrop on their plotting. Our surprise is now complicit with their machinations: the Macbeths have made us partners in their crime.

In the Banquet Hall scene in Act Two, Gergiev and McVicar again drop the Macbeths’ furtive, desperate asides right in the midst of Verdi’s jagged and slightly helter-skelter music, clearly indicating that no one at this frenzied party is having a good time. If ever there was an operatic scene where trepidation and confusion are in contrast with a last-minute attempt to save one’s skin, this is it. The scene opens with Lady Mac beth’s brash but effective drinking song urged on by her husband who soon learns that Banquo has been murdered but that his son Fleance has escaped – a first dent in Macbeth’s fabricated armor. Returning to the festivities, Macbeth imagines seeing Banquo’s ghost, but soundly re jects the hallucination. Nevertheless, this leads his Lady and their guests to question his judgment. As he recovers his presence of mind, he again urges his wife to lift her cup in song, but Banquo’s ghost quick ly appears once more, which causes Macbeth to lose control of his al ready fragile mental balance, Lady Macbeth to lose her composure and, in a stirring finale, their courtiers to recognize they are losing their king.

It is during the moments before the finale, when Macbeth and his Lady are trying to assess the damage done to Macbeth’s throne by his hallucinations, that Gergiev and McVicar project some of the most poignant and heartfelt measures Verdi ever composed to meet the inten sity expressed at the scene’s end. It takes just two segments, one visual and one vocal, for the Gergiev-McVicar team to bring to the fore the all-­consuming fear that everything the diabolical couple has strived for is lost. As Banquo’s ghost walks across the stage from left to right, pass ing in front of Macbeth on its way, the weakened, dispirited king crum ples to the floor, his big frame transformed into a fetal position, his pow er disintegrating before our eyes. As he slowly comes out of his delirium, he touchingly expresses to Lady Macbeth that he feels his mental and physical powers returning, but she finishes his musical phrase by shaming him and unknowingly predicting his doom.

By emphasizing these moments of extreme self-doubt implied by keeping the Macbeths separate from their soon-to-be-conspirators, Gergiev and McVicar dramatically link these charged emotional scenes to one of the opera’s defining moments – Lady Macbeth’s sleepwalking scene. In most other productions this scene, directed as a separate enti ty, stands apart from the more robust and clamoring sections. It is rec ognized as an important element in the story, but somehow the emo tional continuity is broken, and the scene appears as something detached and then reinstated only as a great operatic moment. Howev er, this scene is more than that. Due to Gergiev and McVicar’s inherent integrity in following Verdi’s and Piave’s intentions, we are finally able to garner our reward and truly experience the emotional continuity in tended. We see Macbeth becoming truly unhinged, this being under lined by his wife’s pathetic commiseration. As she tries desperately to hold on to their fragile mental stability, Lady Macbeth imagines she is taking her husband’s hand and quietly leading him to bed, in recogni tion that what is done cannot be undone. By taking Verdi at his word, Gergiev and McVicar give his words their fullest meaning, treating this couple with a compassion many other productions do not deem that they deserve.

Print this Article