So I went to see the SF Opera “Marriage of Figaro” last night. Absolutely wonderful production, miles removed from some of the stilted, boring Figaros that used to be the norm. This one had mostly younger singers (including a young, tall, hot Figaro), excellent acting, abundant humor (even slapstick), beautifully sung throughout. Roy Goodman — he of Hanover Band fame — conducted.
I just love the historically-informed performance initiative has revived material like Mozart’s operas, which were running a real danger of turning into increasingly formalistic set-pieces. Figaro in particular was becoming frozen like a fly in amber, a period-piece with layers of increasingly stultifying opera-house traditions pressing down. Conductors like John Eliot Gardiner, René Jacobs, and Roy Goodman are bringing the music back to a newer life. The newer style of productions emphasizes naturalistic acting, people who actually look right for their roles, and a lack of ‘operatic’ hokiness. It danced, it bubbled, it sparkled; adorable, funny, touching. 3 and 1/2 hours flew by like a few minutes. There was very little in this production of the big round lady planting herself center front and bellowing out her big aria.
Except for the big round lady playing the Contessa, who seemed to have been dropped into this sparkling, fresh, ‘Figaro’ from a stale production from a regional opera house circa 1955. She played the role with all of the standard stagey, stilted diva-ish mannerisms. Even her second-act gown didn’t match the rest of the production — somehow I got the impression it’s her own gown, one that she probably “always” wears when she plays the Contessa. Musically she was lousy: she dragged terribly (painfully noticeable amidst the crisp, taut, clear performances all around her), her intonation was extremely doubtful. She sang with a big wide Verdian vibrato, scooped and hooted. In her duet with Susannah in Act Three, Susannah wound up having to follow *her*, rather than the conductor given how utterly free Madame la Contessa was being with her rhythms and tempi. In Act Four, at the beginning of the gorgeous redemption chorus at the end, she sang unbelievably slowly, more or less ignoring the tempo that had already been set.
In short, everything I dislike about mannered, stagey, diva-ish opera singing was concentrated in this one woman bellowing, hooting, and posturing her way through an overwise enchanting production. Fortunately it was strong enough that she could only hurt it, but not ruin it. It remains one of the very best Figaros I have ever seen, although I have this mental image of how marvelous it would have been with a Contessa in the cast who matched the rest in vocal skill and acting ability, and who was really a part of the company and not some effected diva making a star turn.
Because stars — while they can be wonderful sometimes — are usually horribly detrimental to ensemble work. The emphasis is on the name or the personality rather than the group and the character. In this case, despite the obviously glaring shortcomings of the performance (vocally as much as dramatically) the various opera queens in the audience were still screaming and stamping, even after a “Dove sono?” in Act Three that would have been marked down severely in a Conservatory undergraduate jury. (Bad rhythm, poor intonation, wobbly vocal control, stereotyped expression, no sense of performance practice or style.)
But of course she was the *star* and so got a lot of bravos that she plainly didn’t deserve. (Fortunately, during the final curtain calls, at least some kind of common sense prevailed in that the biggest hand for the evening went to John Relyea’s Figaro.) Oh, the whole cult of the diva; it’s as ridiculous as anything else in the entertainment world, and really has little to do with the real quality of an opera.
I won’t say who the interloping diva was except to hint that it was Ruth Ann Swenson.