AVA's "La Traviata'

Play it again, Violetta

JIM RUTTER

Long before realism became the dominant trend in theater, Verdi premiered his opera La Traviata in 1853, with a story and production that marked one of the first uses of the verismo style. Audiences of the time—in Paris and elsewhere—saw themselves on stage, in lives bursting with passion over concerns similar to their own: love, morality, hedonism and, ultimately— in an age when tuberculosis ravaged whole populations— the fear of a young death.

Since then, the combination of Verdi’s music and librettist Francesco Maria Piave’s passionate tale of love and remorse has captured audiences, no matter the setting. Big emotions resonate loudly in even the most stoic or cynical age, especially among the partying young and wealthy. The Academy of Vocal Art’s Christofer Macatsoris understands this, as his strident, yet well-modulated conducting forcibly demonstrates, earning huge dividends in the opera’s most powerful moments.

The only problem: In the first three presentations, he had to fit these big passions (grand passions) into the very small Helen Corning Warden Theater at AVA.

La Traviata opens on a party held in the salon of Violetta, a courtesan who is well-kept with money and jewels by the Baron Douphol. But in the Warden Theater’s small, circular stage (flanked by a balcony and back-dropped by large mirrors interspersed between multiple doors), there’s barely room for furniture, let alone nearly 20 guests in suits and big-bustled dresses.

Tucked into this small space, the party seemed more like a post-college get together in a Queen Village studio apartment— everyone shows up, everyone drinks, but no one can move. And though it’s still quite festive, the sense of the evening is more like this Renoir painting: beautiful and soft, yet expressively muted.

Ardent admirer or lovelorn wallflower?

That is, until the powerful (yet gorgeous) instrument of Jan Cornelius as Violetta pierces the intimacy of the hall. When she meets Alfredo (Michael Fabiano), who has loved her from afar, he at least understands how to temper his volume. Fabiano knows how to pull back and adjust to the space, but unfortunately, this effect makes him sound more like a lovelorn wallflower than an ardent admirer. It’s clearly intentional, as he lets full out moments later in Brindisi, displaying the rich, thick caliber of singing he can offer to match hers.

And though Violetta’s wracked with guilt over her past life and doesn’t feel she deserves the happiness that love can offer (compared to the quick and memory-erasing pleasures of revelrous abandon), the pair run off to the country and live in seclusion— away from society, gossip, and her past. That is, until his past—in the form of his father Germont père (Octavio Moreno)—shows up, and demands that Violetta end the scandalous relationship that’s now costing Alfredo’s sister a potential marriage.

It’s interesting how both use God to justify their positions (maybe they’re also running for President?). Germont condemns their affair as sinful, while Violetta contends that God has wiped away the sins of her past, making her worthy of Alfredo’s love. In Moreno’s solid performance, I’m compelled to agree with him; I haven’t seen the role played with this much gravity and stage presence in a long time.

But Germont presses his point— even if God forgives her, man will not— to which Violetta succumbs, if only to ease her guilt over her past indiscretions. She flees, leaving Alfredo a note that he interprets to suit his vengeful hurt which Germont inflames by lying—three decisions that wreck love’s happiness and cripple Violetta’s resistance to the TB that’s been slowly killing her.

Ratcheting up the tension

Macatsoris emphasizes these big moments, ratcheting up the tension by cutting out the music like a boxer winding up before unleashing a roundhouse— and the force of the music and voices hits powerfully. And the voice of Cornelius, which was too big earlier, sounds perfect for the most tragic moment: When she bids farewell to Alfredo for good (though he doesn’t know it), the playing of the orchestra and her singing fuse perfectly.

However, director Dorothy Danner’s crowded staging in the third act helps to diminish this effect, especially when Alfredo, taking his vengeance on Violetta, starts throwing money at her from ten feet away while standing up on the aforementioned balcony. Usually, it’s the nastiest moment of the opera; here it appeared like a temper tantrum.

A too-obvious flourish

Moreover, Danner adds unnecessary flourishes in a “figure of death” offering jewels to lure Violetta away from the quiet ecstasy of love and back to her hard-partying city life, an idea already used in the 2005 Salzburg production starring Anna Netrebko and Rolando Villazón. But in both productions it’s a too obvious flourish— everyone in the audience knows she’s going to die (hey, it’s opera), and the offer of jewels is unnecessary— her lyrics have already told us that she’s conflicted.

Ultimately though, too much passion borders on the self-indulgent, as this production and the story make abundantly clear. At the end, Germont regrets asking Violetta to leave his son, Alfredo feels remorse over his vengeful actions, and the dying Violetta mourns the happiness her guilt cost her more than the loss of her own life.

The tragedy isn’t so much that she dies, but how grief and remorse are pointless for people who don’t pursue what they want in the first place (as I always say to someone who apologizes, “If you were really sorry, you wouldn’t have done it”). And while Sartre wouldn’t come along to systematize existentialism for another hundred years, a true hedonist should know better.