The Metropolitan Opera has revived its production of The Elixir of Love, Donizetti’s magnificent comedy. This production opened the Met’s 2012–13 season. I reviewed it here.
In the cast were Anna Netrebko, Matthew Polenzani, Mariusz Kwiecien, and Ambrogio Maestri. That is a gold-plated cast. The production was by Bartlett Sher, of Broadway fame—although, increasingly, one should say of opera fame.
I have no great beef with the Sher production. I loved the old one, by John Copley. Critics tended to gag on it: It was whimsical and goofy. It looked like an old-fashioned Valentine’s Day card. At the end, a banner was unfurled: “Viva l’Amore.”
Just right for The Elixir of Love. And isn’t that what a production should be? Just right for the opera? Or is such thinking hopelessly Neanderthal?
On Monday night, the Met orchestra started alarmingly. And lamentably. They were barely together, barely professional. As the first act continued, the music was deficient in verve and grace, as well as precision. The march to which the soldiers enter was flabby. Deliberately so?
In brief, there was no fizz in the bottle of Elixir. Your correspondent had to scoot at intermission. I hope the affair improved.
The conductor was a fellow with an interesting name: Enrique Mazzola. His name is interesting because the first is Spanish and the second is Italian. (Italian’s Henry is Enrico.) Maestro Mazzola is Italian. And I have no doubt that he is better than Monday night suggested.
As I sat there, I thought, “The Met orchestra must suffer whiplash.” They’re apt to have a different conductor every night. They play different music every night—sometimes radically different music. It’s amazing they are as consistent, and consistently good, as they are.
Our soprano, our Adina, was Aleksandra Kurzak, from Poland. She sang with competence and pleasure. By pleasure, I mean that she enjoyed what she was doing, which is a boost to a performance. She was a saucy paesana. Her high notes were sometimes without vibrato, which was odd.
Best of all, probably, Kurzak sang with true intonation. Accurate pitch. Even when the intervals were tricky. Intonation makes a big difference in singing, which is especially noticeable when intonation is off.
Our tenor, our Nemorino, was Vittorio Grigolo, he of the golden throat. Yes, what a beautiful voice. In the early going, he did a lot of swooning and sliding—vocally, I mean. Plácido Domingo—no mean swooner and slider himself—might have said, “Geez, son, sing it a little straighter.” It was a pleasure to hear Italian out of Grigolo’s mouth. Italian opera, especially bel canto, can use real Italian.
As for Grigolo’s acting, he mugged, as is his wont. He was puppyish to a fault, probably. But I believe the role of Nemorino can take it, and I found Grigolo endearing, as I usually do.
A quick word on pronunciation, please: People want to accent the first syllable of the tenor’s name, because that seems most Italian. Actually, he accents the second syllable: Gri-GO-lo. In fact, his name is sometimes rendered “Grigòlo.”
This can be hard to get used to. How do you feel about “Nabokov”? Russianly, you say Na-BO-kov. In my American mouth, NA-bo-kov is far more natural. Anyway, to each his goût.
Our Belcore was Adam Plachetka, a Czech bass-baritone. When he began, he was tight, quite tight. He loosened up a bit before Act I was over. I reviewed him very warmly last summer from Salzburg, where he was Mozart’s Figaro.
Our Dulcamara was Alessandro Corbelli, the veteran Italian baritone. He is canny. But there was not much voice. The scene in which the doctor hawks his wares is one of the most delightful in opera. Frankly, I have never seen duller. But opera is like that: in the next performance, the scene may be a hoot.
Comparisons are odious, or odorous, said Shakespeare. I like to do as little of it as possible in music reviews. But I could not help thinking of this: Dulcamara opens with “Udite, udite, o rustici!” “Listen, listen, you rustics!” (or peasants or villagers). In that 2012–13 season, you should have heard Ambrogio Maestri. He rolled the “r” in “rustici” with fantastic condescension and flair.
Currently, he is another Donizetti character at the Met: Don Pasquale.