Un lieto fine

So I don't really have much to say about Lyric's Don Pasquale. The principles are all stock characters from the commedia dell'arte inserted into a fairly simple rom-com plot with some lovely bel canto singing, all given a very traditional staging and conducted with bounce and verve. But it bothers me that I always find plenty to say when a performance is subpar in some way and so little when it's successful on all counts.

Of the four singers, I was most impressed with Marlis Petersen and René Barbera (our Columbina and Pierrot, respectively, although the libretto names them as "Norina" and "Ernesto") and a bit disappointed in Ildebrando D'Arcangelo (Pantalone, a.k.a. "Don Pasquale"). At first, I wondered if D'Arcangelo's vocal weakness (his voice tended to get lost in the ensemble pieces) might be a conscious choice to portray decrepitude--he's rather younger than the typical Pasquale--but then I realised I was overthinking it, and Nuphy confirmed that he simply lacked a robust lower register. So the Act III duet between him and Corey Crider (Il Dottore) didn't reach the admittedly high bar set by Oswald and Plishka's contribution to the Met gala for James Levine's 25th anniversary (my first introduction to the opera and one of my favourite performances altogether).

The Snore King cavilled to me a bit about Barbera, but I simply don't see why; about the only shortcoming you could really point to is that he didn't draw out some of his notes as much as he might have. The notes themselves, however, were gorgeous. He's also as cute as a button. Even though I've seen him in several productions by now, I was struck particularly forcefully this time by how much he resembles a young Jim Belushi. Perhaps because he decided to portray Pasquale's ne'er-do-well of a nephew with a certain louche charm? Still, I don't think his part was as challenging as our stunning soprano's, with all of its coloratura runs. Petersen handled them beautifully, her voice so mellifluous that she couldn't even make it sound shrill when the role demanded it. Crider seems to be getting little love for his Dottore Malatesta and I can't understand why, given how he managed to hold his own against her in their Act I duet and went on to outsing D'Arcangelo in spots.

But none of them would've shone as they did had we not had the luck not to have Davis conducting. Instead, Stephen Lord came up from my hometown where he directs the summer opera festival (leading me to text Nuphy with the question why St Louis should have a better opera director than the Lyric). Where Davis would've turned the score to sludge, Lord kept it burbling along, actually finishing five minutes early. Nuphy and I both went in thinking we'd snooze during Act I but, to our surprise, we never had the chance.

As mentioned, the production doesn't break any new ground, but I've said before that I'd rather have a traditional staging carried off effectively than a contemporary one done half-assed. There were some odd costuming choices for the domestic staff which formed the chorus and there should've been some way to stage their re-entrance in Act III without throwing distracting shadows across the back of the stage during Pasquale's aria. But overall everything came together and kept the eye engaged. The rooftop set for Norina's first couple scenes was particularly charming.

The usher who admires my argyles told me that at a previous performance he overheard a departing audience member say, "That poor man!" It's hard not to agree with her. Pasquale's fatal flaw seems to be that he believes what people tell him. Sure, he opposes Ernesto's marriage to Norina on the grounds that she hasn't a dowry, but that could well be because he doesn't want to see the feckless lad fall prey to a golddigger. This would certainly explain why he caves so quickly at the end when Sofronia's true identity is revealed. But again, if you're trying to find reason behind the persecution of Pantalone, then like me you're overthinking it.

From the archives 1: The weight of eating light

Walking back from lunch today, I felt numb inside. At least, that's the description that first occurred to me. After a moment's reflection, though, I realised that was nonsense. That's not numbness, I told myself, that's calmness. That's what it feels like not to be full of anxiety all the time. It's the positive side of growing older.

When I was in college I was, in the words of one my contemporaries, "an emotional jambalaya". I don't know how well I would've coped without my female friends. They were many (and there was some turnover), but the most dependable of them during my second year were Guge, Gorgeous, Wu-Wei Woman, and Destiny. They got my through my first really mad crush, a hopeless attachment to a cute German who I followed around like a puppy until he gave me the basket. I was supposed to cook dinner for him at Destiny's apartment, but he stood me up and so it ended up being just the two of us.

A couple weeks later at the end of Fall Quarter--almost twenty three years to the day--she gave me my Christmas gift. It was a poem she had written about that night. For years I'd given it up for lost, but thinking I might turn over some documents useful to the queer history project, I began rooting through a huge box marked "SOTNEMEM" and voilà:

Eating Light for Daniel

Sitting at my heavy dining room table
I speak of the weight of eating
of dining
of die-ning
"Heavy," you say
and we laugh the way old friends do
though we met not long ago
I have known you forever
and we pause over your ad-libbed meal,
wine from my grandmother that illuminates the table,
and wait for the levity of Bach to take hold.
And I think of the meal you've made for me
(while you stare at me because you love me and I'm beautiful)
this food that, even dripping in butter and wine, does not weigh on us
but just fills, the way seeing you across the table does.
And then we chatter of names for children we'll never have,
in the way of all artists, dreaming of creation.
We will live forever at this table
with the silver-light spread of Bach and the heavy harpsichordist
And I will not complain of my weight anymore
(because you love me and I am beautiful)
because the table has taken it in.
"I am light enough w/o anymore wine," you say
and so I too decline
Your lightness is enough
We have known each other that long.
And now we can make lists
of things that are not wrong
this is our Thanksgiving
this is what we have always known
(but you love me and I'm beautiful)
the weight lightness implies.
Why must I tell you what you already know?
This, perhaps, is my weight.
You know yours.
(I have learned my lesson)
This is our light.
This is our meal.

[Copyright 1989 by Jessica Greene. All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without permission.]

Thanks to Facebook, I'm now in touch with all of these women again--except for Destiny. Her name (as you can see) is too generic to be Googled easily. For a brief moment when I first joined Facebook, I thought I'd found her again, but it was just someone who looked uncannily similar. This is all I have left--well, this and the longstanding benefits of having taken her counsel.