It’s Puccini Week over at the Met’s Nightly Streams, beginning with an opera I haven’t seen any version of yet: La Rondine. And this version stars Roberto Alagna and Samuel Ramey! I’m not sure what I’ll make of the opera, but I’m intrigued to give it a try.
Also difficult to resist will be a rewatch of any La Fanciulla del West, my favorite Puccini opera. I am also intrigued by this casting of La Boheme, which is one I’ve not yet seen.
Have a happy week, everyone…and happy opera listening and watching!
My friend Gabriela and I have long thought that he deserved one, so why not create it ourselves? The incomparable Canadian bass-baritone John Relyea has been a favorite of ours for years. I recall first hearing his voice on the radio, and wondering: “Who is that?” Along with our dear friend and group admin extraordinaire S. Blake Duncan, we now have the beginnings of a fan group, which I will link to here.
I will write an entire separate post (well, probably several, eventually!) about the work of Mr. Relyea, but for now…please feel free to come check out the group, and share or learn about this extraordinary bass-baritone.
It’s a week of bel canto streaming free from the Metropolitan Opera, and each stream will be available for approximately 24 hours.
Due to work this week, I’m not sure I’ll be able to make most of them, but I definitely want to rewatch I Puritani with the great bass John Relyea this Friday ~ which I’ll probably start around 7:30pm Oregon time! It’s one of my favorite operas just for the sheer beauty of listening ~ it’s one of the rare ones where following the plot is not as crucial to me, I just love to listen to it so much. I never did get around to seeing this week’s version of L’Elisir and Norma (Sat/Sun), so perhaps I’ll be able to dip into those as well.
“That’s what I like about Shakespeare, the pictures.” ~Al Pacino, “Looking for Richard”
This blog post might as well have been titled “…And he can sing, too!” which happens to be another of the joking lines that are often used by my family in relation to the all-around marvel that is Jonas Kaufmann.
I finally caved and bought “the picture book,” as I was mentally titling it, having seen the price drop by about $20 U.S.D. recently from one vendor (which, alas, I am not sure is still selling it). But I should have bought it right away. It is written/photographed by Jonas’ friend, biographer, and media manager Thomas Voigt and my lovely friend Christine Cerletti, and it an absolute must for those of us suffering from the happy malady known as Kaufmannia, described in a post from 2016. And who among us couldn’t do with a little more light and beauty right now?
Jonas Kaufmann: Eine Bilderreise is a dual-language, heavily-weighted, and very attractive book, following our hero in pictures through the wealth of his many performances, from snapshots of his “early years,” including Idomeneo and Cosi fan tutte, through his work mostly categorized by composer or repertoire, from “Giuseppe Verdi” to “German Repertoire” to “Giacomo Puccini” to “Verismo,” to “Recitals,” “Concerts,” portraits of Jonas, and even a special little selection of Jonas’ own abstract photos. The introduction by the Director of the Munich Staatsoper, Nikolaus Bachler, as well as those by Voigt and Cerletti, express well the beauty and attractiveness that draw us to the “dark” tenor.
“What matters to him is presence instead of semblance, content instead of an empty shell. Not only do his heroes always emanate a sun-like magic, an inner fire and glow, but also dark presentiment and abysmal depths. Kaufmann does not merely belong to those who have been called, but is among the chosen…” ~Nikolaus Bachler, pg. 6
This is far more than your typical coffee-table book, perhaps because it brings into visual relief the wealth of this unique tenor’s incredibly rich and diverse work in a way both sensitive and insightful. Many of the featured photographs are essentially Christine’s own “screenshots,” some of which those of us in Jonas’ fan groups have enjoyed over the years. They capture moments of supreme beauty and emotion which recall us instantly to the performance. And none can so completely draw us into the emotional depth and interiority of a role as can Jonas.
Christine, in her delightful introduction, relates the way she first heard our tenor’s voice, as she was searching for an interpretation of Schubert’s Winterreise, and she’d frankly been trying to avoid the tenors. But his name kept coming up, and when she finally listened, it was transformative: “I would never have thought it possible that a tenor’s voice could electrify me that profoundly. I was completely taken with its baritonal, bronze, and sensual tone alone, let alone the singer’s eminent musicality and enormous expressiveness. This was not a narrator describing the figure of a wanderer in winter–this was the lonesome wanderer struggling with his fate.”
I think this beautifully sums up what makes Jonas’ voice and interpretation so unique: not only the dusky sound, but his approach to a role as if it had never been sung before. As if from within. This echoes Voigt’s insight into the words of Helmut Deutsch, who had said of Jonas that each time he comes to a role, even one which he has done many, many times before, “not the slightest routine made itself felt, each time it was all or nothing–and each time different,” his energy never abating. Jonas connects to the audience as if mind-to-mind, and heart-to-heart. Or, as Antonio Pappano has said of him, he is “the thinking-man’s tenor.” And he just happens to be a marvelous actor as well as singer and interpreter.
“Whenever you’re on stage, don’t act ‘as if’! This is about genuine feelings! I have learned this from the great stage director Giorgio Strehler, with ‘Cosi fan tutte,’ my very first opera production in Milan. He required absolute, unconditional commitment and passion from us; and this has literally burned itself into my mind.” ~Jonas Kaufmann, pg. 43
Thank you, Thomas Voigt and Christine Cerletti, for such a beautifully photographed and sensitively composed tribute to “our tenor,” and another ray of light in the midst of this ombra di nube.
I know I’m not alone in feeling something of a constant, low-grade “depression” (not to be clinical about it, but for lack of a more accurate word) during what has been a uniquely difficult year for the world.
Countless fires in my home state, Oregon (or is it “Mordoregon”?) ~ one of which started at the north end of my own town, Ashland, this past Tuesday, and caused devastation in its northward path to neighboring towns ~ and all over the West, and the Covid-19 shutdown, and ineffective leadership, and racial injustice…all feel like an oppressive shadow obscuring any brightness in the world. Now, we hardly need more brooding words about the state of the world; rather, we need hope, joy, kindness, good works for our neighbors, beauty, and art. Sometimes it has been all some of us can do to just live, and pray, and work; some of my own opera listening and watching has fallen by the wayside. But it is a sad loss, if that’s too long the case. We’ve lifted up the neglected “essential workers” during this time of pandemic, and it’s beyond wonderful. Now, I feel more than ever how truly essential also are our artists, actors, musicians, and those who bring beauty into the world. I don’t intend to focus on anything but music and opera in this blog, but only to take a brief pause, to remind myself, if nothing else, not to neglect the beauty that we live for.
Speaking of those who bring beauty into the world, one of my opera heroes, Ildar Abdrazakov, has tested positive for Covid-19, and I hope and pray for his quick and full recovery, and for all of his family.
I am so curious as to how, and whether, the Don Carlos from the Wiener Staatsoper, with Ildar and Jonas, will continue as scheduled, in the midst of social distancing. But if does, I’ll be there…virtually!
The latter, set on a platform above a beautiful Mediterranean vista, was so much fun, and particularly the duet from L’Elisir d’Amore, that I finally watched my first L’Elisir! I can’t believe I hadn’t seen one yet. It was a subtitled 1997 version from Lyon, with a very young Roberto Alagna ~ whose Nemorino was very reminiscent of a clumsy, adorable, hapless Charlie Chaplin ~ and Angela Gheorghiu. The whole cast did a lovely job, and the two leads were so delightful.
If anyone else has beautiful, inspiring, or just downright funny and delightful operas to recommend, I’d love to hear them! Meanwhile, here’s a virtual toast to art, opera, opera friendships, and laughter! And prayers for all of our beloved artists worldwide, and for our suffering world.
I couldn’t resist jotting some thoughts on my reaction to the recent and much-anticipated Royal Opera House production of La forza del destino, starring Jonas Kaufmann, Anna Netrebko, Ludovic Tézier, and Ferruccio Furlanetto, even though I’m not very familiar with this opera. When I first became infatuated with opera, I saw a recording of the Kaufmann/Harteros/Tézier version from Munich of several years ago, but that was the only complete version I’ve seen. I was intrigued, but a little confused by what seems a fairly simple story. Perhaps it was some directorial choices that made certain things unclear, whereas many who saw it were probably well familiar with the story from other versions and had no trouble following along.
In essence–SPOILER ALERT–the story begins in the home of the Marquis of Calatrava, who believes that his daughter Leonora has gotten over her infatuation with the foreigner, Don Alvaro (an Incan prince from the Americas). In reality, they’ve planned an elopement, and Don Alvaro shows up that very night, and overcomes the reluctance of Leonora to fulfill their plan. They are caught, however, by the Marquis, accompanied by the pursuing “destiny theme” in the music, and provoke a fight with Alvaro, who has tried to take the blame on himself. Alvaro, in trying to hand over his gun, accidentally shoots the Marquis—who, with his dying breath, curses his daughter. Both Leonora and Alvaro flee the same night, but not together; she believes he has escaped, perhaps gone back to his homeland. After overhearing her brother’s plan to find and kill his sister in order to avenge the family honor, Leonora begs Padre Guardiano to let her follow in the footsteps of another unhappy woman, and to commit herself to the life of a solitary anchoress in a cave near the friary. After some resistance, Guardiano agrees to support her. Meanwhile, after having sought Leonora for a year and now believing her dead, Alvaro joins the fight for Italy against the Germans. Rising in the ranks, he ends up—under another name—saving his foe, Don Carlo (who is also going by another name), and the two swear eternal brotherhood. Alvaro, having become mortally wounded, gives Carlo the key to a box that he keeps, revealing his identity, and asks Carlo to burn the contents. Carlo finds out the identity of Alvaro, and is eager that he should be healed–which is what happens–in order that he may kill him himself. Carlo reveals to Alvaro that Leonora is alive, but will die by his hand. After presumably both time and a game of cat-and-mouse searching have passed, Don Alvaro ends up committing his life to the friary in order to expiate the misdeeds of his past, and is much beloved by the populace. Finally, his whereabouts are discovered by Carlo, who provokes the dormant ire of the now-nonviolent Alvaro; they duel, ending up disturbing the peace of the nearby (dying) anchoress Leonora; Alvaro strikes a mortal blow at Carlo, and as the latter is dying Leonora and Alvaro recognize one another, and the dying Carlo, unrepentant still, kills his sister. During her final, peaceful passing, Alvaro finds in the situation and in her words assurance of his own redemption in spite of the brutal force of destiny.
In Charles Osborne’s book, The Complete Operas of Verdi, I was surprised to read that La forza, based on a play by Angel Saavedra and on a scene from Schiller, was first composed for a Russian audience and performed at St. Petersburg at the Imperial Theatre. The original ending was even more Russian, dark, and Dostoyevskian, coming directly from the play:
“Riva’s play ends, after the duel and the death of Leonora, with Alvaro’s suicide. He rushes to the cliff edge as the Father Superior and the monks appear on the scene. When the Father Superior calls him by his monastic name, Rafaele, he cries: ‘You can search for Father Raphael, you fool. I am a messenger from hell. I am the spirit of destruction….Hell, open your mouth and swallow me. Let the heavens collapse! Let mankind perish!’ And, with a final shout of ‘Extermination, Annihilation”, he flings himself over the cliff….The gentler ending as we know it today stems from the Milan revision of 1869” (Osborne 336).
Anna Netrebko’s low, melancholy soprano and the passionate but sadly tormented demeanor are a great fit for Leonora, and although Jonas is the only Don Alvaro I’ve seen, he fits the role beautifully with his winning charisma as well as his dark and dusky tenor voice and his phenomenal acting ability revealing the character’s guilt-ridden torment.
Ludovic Tézier is a brilliantly cold Don Carlo, whose rich baritone mingles so beautifully with Jonas in their scenes together; the two always have the most compelling chemistry. Theirs is the friendship that might-have-been; it is for me possibly the greatest tragedy in the story. The extent of Don Carlo’s need for revenge goes beyond any kind of bounds of honor; it becomes sheer passionate excess; but one sees, in the budding friendship before he realizes the identity of Alvaro, the potential that this character has. The gorgeous friendship duet, “Solenne in quest’ ora,” is breathtaking.
And Ferruccio Furlanetto’s Padre Guardiano is spot-on; the beauty of Furlanetto’s voice, so brilliantly preserved and rich, is always a sheer delight to listen to, and he plays the role with the appropriate complexity; he clearly admires Leonora but doesn’t know what to make of the whole situation. And, like a well-meaning but possibly quite misguided Friar Lawrence in Romeo and Juliet, allows her to persuade him to an extreme course of action. (His voice sometimes made me weepy just with the sheer beauty of it.)
I liked the simple staging and updated dress, whose time period was a little hard to pin down. The glimpse into Leonora’s childhood with an abusive brother, which we witness during the overture, makes an imaginative and helpful background for Carlo’s fanatical, Javert-like pursuit of his sister and her would-be lover. Thankfully, Christof Loy’s direction is neither overly-symbolic nor unnecessarily ambiguous; any interpretation that can be attached to it is something that one considers only in hindsight—at least, this was my experience—because the drama takes precedence. In Loy’s use of the background film projections of close-up, exaggerated reactions of the prinicpal characters, generally in slow-motion, I was reminded, as was my friend Viv whose review I would love to link here if I can find it on a public site, of the Warlikowski Don Carlos of Paris, 2017, though I don’t believe Loy’s was as creative and inspired as the latter overall. Another curious stage choice was that, whether in the Calatrava household or later in the friary, we seem to be in the same “setting”–a dining room of sorts—and I couldn’t help but wonder if the director wanted us to believe that Leonora was simply exchanging one kind of submission (that of a daughter to an overbearing father) for another (that of an anchoress to a religious father). I appreciated the “deeper logic” that the director was trying to get at in the staging, with the recurring room perhaps more reflective of Leonora’s consciousness and her tormented memories, than the real setting itself.
In terms of direction, the only thing I had a negative reaction to–because it took me “out” of the drama, as not entirely making sense except in terms of directorial imposition–was the scene where the friars are accepting their new “charge,” their new anchoress who will dwell in the cave, after Leonora has persuaded Padre Guardiano to allow her this chance. At a certain point, the mood of the scene changes from the somewhat daunting, somber and inspired piety of the action, to one where Leonora seems to have a last-minute change of mind, but the monks physically force her to stay and she ends up in a restraint position on the ground. Here again, I felt a little bit of the director’s imposition: the idea that she has merely exchanged one form of submission for another. To me, this undermines the strength of the love-sacrifice of the story, and the strength of Leonora’s character. After all, however misguided Padre Guardiano was in agreeing to it, it was her request and her resolve that won the day, and I think we need to respect that in the storyline, as it shows no little strength of character. We are dealing with people of a different time and different ideals, including those of the Romantic—often to the point of melodramatic—19th century stage here, and, in my opinion, the piece is more poignant if played straightforwardly and as though the characters are acting out of their authentic convictions, and not with our own 21st-century abhorrence for the extreme choices of cloistered, consecrated, or eremetic life, with the added submission to authority that is inherent in such a choice. So, while I see what the director was saying, it was, for me, a momentary misstep.
I do want to give a special mention to the fabulous supporting cast. In particular, for me, Alessandro Corbelli gave us some welcome comic relief with his wonderful Fra Melitone, and Robert Lloyd was both haunting and intimidating as the Marquis…such a key role and a key scene in the psychology of Leonora, and of her sad destiny. Veronica Simeoni did a fine job in the role of Preziosilla, though hers was overall, for me, not as strong a performance as the others. (This may be my own unfamiliarity with the opera and the character’s role in the drama, and having nothing to compare with.)
In terms of Pappano’s brilliant conducting and the beauty of the orchestration, nothing could be better. The thrilling final scenes, the Don Carlo/Alvaro duel, and the heartbreaking look on Jonas’ face which brought tears to my eyes—all made for a brilliant finale.
My next Forza, I think, will be the 1958 video recording with Corelli, Bastianini, Tebaldi, and Christoff…and very much looking forward to it!
But I also look forward to revisiting this one; I very recommend this production, which was a good vehicle for an excellent cast and orchestra of this strange and poignant opera.
Speaking of “malaise,” the overworked pace of 2018 kept me on a restricted opera regimen–and, actually, a restricted regimen of any life outside of work!–and I regretted having missed most of the Met’s HDs and radio broadcasts and many of the other broadcasts I would love to have seen and heard. (I’ve generally been MIA from my favorite opera groups online. I miss my dear opera pals so much!) However, things are looking up, and on this restful Sunday morning I’ve been spending time reviewing the recent announcements on the Met’s 2019-2020 season, both on stage (radio, for me!) and cinema.
Overall, nothing stands out in the way that La Fanciulla del West did this past season, with the return not only of this too-little-performed Puccini opera, but of Jonas Kaufmann. Nor have any of my long-term hopes been realized: another big HD role for John Relyea and Štefan Kocán–both of whom are notably absent from any Met performances in the coming season; nor my perhaps quixotic hope that the Met will one day put on a gloriously heartbreaking production of Don Quichotte with Ferruccio Furlanetto, capturing this iconic role in HD for the ages; nor yet the promised all-star Don Carlos in the 5-act French version. Nor do I see anything with King René Pape.
On a few underwhelming notes, what we do have are some of the standby, albeit beautiful Zeffirelli productions–La Bohème, Turandot. (Frankly, I was hoping that they wouldn’t HD the latter again until Jonas Kaufmann finally sings Calaf.) We have an Anna Netrebko feast, with her special concert, as well as the reprisal of her Lady Macbeth and Tosca roles. But we also have Marco Berti back, and Aleksandrs Antonenko.
But I’d rather stick to a few more exciting, positive highlights:
To hear the great Luca Pisaroni‘s Guglielmo and Gerald Finley‘s Don Alfonso in Così fan tutte, although not an HD of the season, alas.
The return of Sir Bryn Terfel, in Der Fliegende Holländer, conducted by Valery Gergiev in a new production.
Stars such as Elīna Garanča, Bryan Hymel, and Ildar Abdrazakov in Berlioz’s Faust.
Morris Robinson’s Sarastro, although the shorter, English Magic Flute.
Diana Damrau and Jamie Barton in Maria Stuarda.
Angel Blue and Eric Owens in Porgy and Bess.
Luca Pisaroni again, as Figaro in the Nov/Dec Nozze.
Luca Salsi as Germont in Feb/March La Traviata–though I’m not overall a huge fan of the opera–and Quinn Kelsey in the Jan/early-Feb performances.
Kate Lindsey and Joyce DiDonato in Agrippina.
Other intriguing cast members: Peter Mattei and Tamara Mumford (Wozzeck); Roberto in Bohème; roles with Matthew Polenzani, Javier Camarena, and the great Željko Lučić.
I decided to write this after being informed about the announcement by my dear opera pal Gaby, but before getting back on my beloved opera groups, and I’m intrigued to hear others’ reactions. Similarly underwhelmed? Or perhaps intrigued and inspired? I’d like it to be contagious, if the latter.
In any case, here’s to a new season–not to mention, grateful for a lineup of fantastic performers–and, hopefully, pleasant surprises.
I don’t have words right now, and must go to work ~ somehow, eyes red from crying ~ but I just heard the news from a dear friend about the passing of our beloved Dmitri Hvorostovsky. With a broken heart, I add my quiet condolences to those of all of his many, many fans throughout the world. Rest in peace, beloved Maestro. Thank you for all the beauty you have given us. Our lives are richer for your presence. You will always be our Beloved Baritone.
I have been listening rather obsessively to Jonas’ most recent album of French repertoire, L’Opéra. (That is, when I’m not obsessively relistening to passages from Don Carlos!) One can see and sample, at the previous link, the arias included in this album, from Gounod to Massenet to Bizet, including a gorgeous “Au fond du temple saint” sung with Ludovic Tézier.
This album is more “up my alley,” as they say, than the recent Dolce Vita. (But hey, I would listen to Jonas sing the alphabet song, when it comes to that, so I am far from complaining!) L’Opéra is exquisitely sung and orchestrated, and the CD comes in a beautiful cover with a booklet of photos ~ including some of the stunning Palais Garnier which comprises the outside and inside background of the CD cover ~ and the lyrics to each aria, both in English and French.
Aside from the dazed and giddy feeling on hearing Jonas sing my name in #12 (“Rachel, quand du Seigneur” from La Juive, by Fromental Halévy), the real revelation of this beautiful album was, for me, first hearing the transcendent aria from Massenet’s Le Cid, “Ô Souverain, ô Juge, ô Père.” I am surprised that this aria has managed to escape me before. It was truly a revelation, and has sent me on a quest to get to know this opera. (Link above to Jonas singing it previous to the album.)
Ah! All is over, finished! My beautiful dream of glory, my dreams of happiness, have flown away forever!
You take away my love, you take away my victory, Lord, I submit myself to you! Oh Lord, Oh Judge, Oh Father, always veiled, (but) always present, I loved you when times were good (prosperous) And I praise you on somber days I go where your law leads me, free of human regrets. Oh Lord, Oh Judge, Oh Father, your image alone for my soul is where I submit into your hands.
Oh Heaven above, so blue, so bright… spirits from above, looked at me, although this soldier may be in despair, but his Christian faith remains. You may come, you may appear to me, at the dawn of the eternal day. Oh Lord, Oh Judge, Oh Father! As the servant of a just Lord, I will respond to your call without fear, Oh Lord, Oh Judge, Oh Father!
It is too bad, in a way, that recordings of the aria in concert don’t tend to include the brief interlude of the chorus of heavenly voices, including that of St. James, as it does in the opera. It of course makes sense…but still, it is so beautiful that I wish it could be included in every version.
A few notes on the opera: Massenet’s 4-act opera premiered in Paris in 1885, based on the Pierre Corneille play, with libretto by Louis Gallet, Adolphe d’Ennery and Edouard Blau. The story is one of honor and duty, versus love; of interpersonal and familial struggles within the politics of 11th century Spain. Rodrigue, a valiant warrior who is later nicknamed “le Cid” (“the Lord”), is knighted by the King in Act I, and Rodrigue’s hoped-for marriage to his beloved Chimène is approved. But in addition to these honors, Rodrigue’s father, Don Diègue, is made the protector of the King’s daughter. This act is felt, by the Conte de Gormas (Chimène’s father), to be a deliberate snub to himself. Gormas proceeds to insult Don Diègue, compromising the latter’s honor. In order to regain it, Don Diègue begs his son to challenge Gormas. Rodrigue knows that such an act would estrange him from his beloved Chimène forever; yet, honor bids him fight. Ironically, as my mom has pointed out about the original Corneille play, the very thing that Chimène loves about Rodrigue is his honor; thus, it is a catch-22. I won’t spoil the rest, except to say that the exquisite aria comes in the midst of what Rodrigue believes will be his final battle for the glory of Spain, as he and his army appear to be defeated, or nearly so.
I loved this opera, and want to continue to get better acquainted with it. Along with the stunning Act III aria ~ a fulfillment of earlier set-up in Rodrigue’s vision of, and dedication to, Saint James of Compostella ~ I also particularly loved the Act I knighting scene, and the ceremonial chorus of bells and voices that precedes and follows it.
Unfortunately, there is no recording, CD nor DVD nor elsewhere, of our tenor singing the title role. So, I looked elsewhere, and found a broadcast which, at the time of this writing, is available on YouTube, from the Washington Opera, with Placido Domingo and Elisabete Matos. I chose this recording first because of the obliging English subtitles. It was a lovely production with spectacular costumes and staging, even if the video quality looks like a VHS recording of a TV broadcast, which might well be the case. It’s a treasure.
My second experience of the opera was also thanks to YouTube. It is from l’Opéra de Marseille, 2011, with Roberto Alagna in the lead and it still can be found at this link at the time of this post. I waited on this production, as it doesn’t have the English subtitles, but once I had the gist of the story I was happy to follow along without them.
I loved the costumes in this one, and the casting overall. Béatrice Uria-Monzon was a fantastic Chimène. It took me a bit to warm up to her, but I ended up loving both her voice and overall portrayal. She is strong and fierce, without losing a certain emotional vulnerability which is crucial. I felt the chemistry between the two leads, especially in their big scene together before the battle. As to Roberto, he not only has a beautiful voice especially for French repertoire, but there is something about him that makes our hearts go out to him; he is eminently watchable and lovable.
His visible distress, his hopeless courage, give one the irrational wish to take him into one’s arms and reassure him. One hears it in his voice: the earnest, distressed appeal. It is irresistible and I was behind him completely. It is this quality that makes Roberto so compelling in the earnest, noble, and self-sacrificing roles. It is what makes him such a lovely Don Carlos, particularly in the French, and a heartbreaking Cyrano de Bergerac.
What is it about the French repertoire that is so compelling at this time? From the French Don Carlos, to the French version of Les Vêpres Siciliennes, to Le Cid and L’Opéra…it seems to be a recurring theme at the moment. All I can say is that it is a beauty that has come rather unlooked for, and I’m thirsting for more.
I’ve been home a week now, not yet recovered, reflecting on “mon jour suprême,” as Rodrigue would say, seeing and hearing Jonas live in the French version of my favorite opera. To have heard, in real time and in relatively close space, the one whose voice made me fall in love with opera and who brought music back into my life altogether, lifting my soul out of sadness, was a miraculous gift. A dream.
And speaking of gifts, what a gift it was to have spent time with kindred spirits ~ friends made through this mad passion that is opera-love. So many of us said that Jonas ~ and/or opera in general ~ have brought us together. A supreme gift. And that is only the beginning…we are already planning more adventures to come.
I suppose that, for many who first encounter the world of opera, we cling to a particular “opera guide,” to borrow the phrase of my friend Laura. The guide is that singer who gives us access to new works and help us to latch onto them, because we have first latched onto him or her. We feel comfortable with our guide; he or she helps us to make sense of what is new. We feel with his feelings, and see with his eyes. For one of my friends, this guide is Ruggero Raimondi; for another, James Morris and Ferruccio Furlanetto; for another, Domingo. I am sure that many have taken Jonas for their opera guide, and certainly he has been mine. From Massenet’s Werther (the first Jonas opera I saw on video, from the 2010
Paris production) to Tosca ~ especially the unforgettable live-stream of April, 2016 ~ to An Evening with Puccini to La Fanciulla del West to Don Carlo to Otello to Wagner ~ and I was afraid of Wagner! ~ the
list goes on. Jonas has lifted ~ and broken ~ my heart countless times. His voice has become a light and inspiration, a consolation, and a reminder of why we are alive.
As he stumbles barefoot onto the stage of Don Carlos, we can hear his sobs. (I start blubbering myself by the time he has given Elisabeth the portrait of the Infante to surprise her, and sings, “Je suis Carlos…Je t’aime!” / “I am Carlos and I
love you!”) The projected images of his near-breakdown across the stage send a terror up the spine. His pianissimo is wrenching. Our breathing stops at his voice at such moments, and we are adrift at sea…a sea that is ominous, dark, exquisite, and sometimes terrifying.
In the recent documentary, Jonas Kaufmann, Tenor for the Ages, “our tenor” comments on the interesting phenomenon of the effect he has on so many; how we (his fans) seem to feel as though we are in a kind of relationship with him…and yet, we can know him to a degree, though he cannot possibly know each and every one of us.
He can’t possibly know that so-and-so came all the way from Oregon to hear him, and that she’d been working very hard to make it happen; or that this other fan came from Australia, or England, or Ireland; nor that he changed this or that person’s life forever. We might forget that he can’t possibly know all of this. It is an odd dynamic. Even our tendency to call him, or refer to him as, “Jonas” ~ rather than “Herr Kaufmann” or “Maestro Kaufmann” ~ is, I think, indicative of his approachability, and the affection and intimacy we feel for this beloved tenor. He is “our Jonas,” “our tenor.” His infectious laugh, his kindness, his intelligence, his disarming smile, his enthusiasm…all are clear in every interview, and his presence on stage and screen compels us to feel every emotion with him. But really, when I stop to reflect on this as relates to the tenor himself, how unique ~ and beautifully strange ~ a relationship this is.
It really hit home when, after the emotional impact of my second Don Carlos of October 22nd, the “three little maids” and our friends were not allowed to remain beyond the security barrier to wait for the cast. (Mio Carlo, Viv, was truly heroic in her efforts to “sweet talk” the security guard to allow us to remain! But it was not to be.) All of us were pressed just on the other side of the barrier. It was impossible, in those fleeting moments ~ he is walking into a virtual wave of fans pouring out and around him ~ to say something personal and meaningful as he graciously tries to accommodate everyone’s desire to have a moment, a signature, or a photo.
After he signed my program ~ which I didn’t really need, as I already have a treasured signature of his which was obtained for me in January by mio Carlo, Viv ~ I asked if I might shake his hand. Instead, I kissed it. In the moment, it was the only means of communication that occurred to me, as I didn’t have the words.
Later, as he walked through the crowd (the parting of the Red Sea) Viv and I followed without thought or aim, in a kind of daze ~ at least, that was my own state of mind ~ half-conscious that we were very time-crunched, needing to catch the last Eurostar that night so that I could make my plane from London in the morning. Jonas stopped at one point to allow some photos to be taken, and in a brief moment after one of his fans stepped away, this shy Oregonian stepped in and asked on impulse, “Jonas, may I have a photo?” (I followed this up with a “My hero!” which I’m not sure that he heard…) Still in a daze, I unthinkingly rested my head against his scarf and jacket as Viv snapped the photos. (And I didn’t even say “Il core vi dono!” Such restraint! 😉 ) He is so gracious. After that, I suppose I could have flown back to Oregon without the plane. (Viv and I did literally run across the street and back to collect our luggage, hardly conscious of the traffic, or of anything else!)
I will treasure that memory as long as I live. For him, I suppose, it was only another fan, and another moment; for me, the whole experience was the “jour suprême.”
How can one say, in a moment ~ even if one could remain clear-headed enough to express it ~ how truly appreciative we are of his great gift that he shares with us? To remark what a wonderful performance it was, or how “beautiful” it was, seems so terribly insufficient that we might resign ourselves to silence.
One would need the words that Charles Dickens gives to the broken Sydney Carton, who was “recalled to life” by the presence of Lucie. That Sydney knows he can never mean anything to Lucie personally, does not alter the fact that she has had a great impact on his life; she has made him a better man simply by her existence in the world. “You have stirred old shadows that I thought had died out of me.” Perhaps we wish we could be a Rodrigue, or a Don Quichotte ~ tilting at windmills ~ or a Sydney, for our tenor. “It is useless to say it, I know, but it rises out of my soul. For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything…”
His investment in each and every role, his intelligence and thoughtful interpretation of character, his quality as an actor…all are, of course, part of what goes into this alchemy. His unique voice, so dark and haunting. But there is something still indefinable and ineffable. A depth of humanity ~ an empathy ~ is communicated in every note. Too, perhaps one has the feeling ~ the imagining ~ that he is singing to you yourself, directly. I have heard masterful audiobook readers that, one would swear, are speaking directly to you, whispering in your ear and telling you the story, as though no one else was present. They are reading for you. And, they have the ability to communicate the heart of the story, as if from within. This almost ineffable poignancy and intimacy does come through, in the voice itself, when one has the gift of mastery. It is that special something that perhaps separates a talented voice from a masterful and life-changing one. It is this something that makes an audience applaud for an unheard-of number of minutes, interrupting the flow of an opera, to hear again the devastating “E lucevan le stelle” with unearthly pianissimo. Whatever “it” is, this something breaks our hearts and makes us wish to be better than we are, simply in gratitude that such beauty is possible in this world, like a glimpse of paradise.
“Mon âme, à votre voix, rêve du paradis!” / “My soul, at your voice, dreams of paradise!”
~ Don Carlos, Act II
Jonas’ unique voice, veiled and shadowy, communicates a mystery, a longing. If longing for the inexpressible had a voice, it would be his.
And, perhaps, in a better world than this, where time itself is irrelevant and there is no press of the crowd, no jostling for that impossible “moment” to communicate our thanks, our Jonas just might understand something of the impact that his hard work ~ and his great gift ~ have had upon each one of us. But I hope he glimpses it now, and that it makes him smile. Certainly, there is one little seamstress out West who will carry this gratitude in her heart always.