"The Tempest' at the Met in New York

The batting average for operas based on Shakespeare is low. Verdi knocked the ball out of the park with Otello and Falstaff and stroked a solid single with Macbeth. Gounod scratched out a hit with Romeo et Juliette, and Britten got on base with his clever Midsummer Night's Dream.

But when you consider the fact that Shakespeare wrote 39 plays, a least 30 of which were enduring classics, those five successes produce a batting average well below .200. This slump isn't improved by the most recent such opera.

The Tempest, by the English composer Thomas Adès, has had productions in five cities since its London premiere in 2004. Many critics (like Anthony Tommasini in the New York Times) have praised it as "inspired" and "audacious." Others (like David Patrick Stearns in the Philadelphia Inquirer) criticized the piece as "tiresome" and tedious."

In the case of a tie score, the public decides the winner. The audience at movie theaters last weekend was the smallest I've seen at any Met HD screening in five years. And deservedly so.

Chuck Berry's lesson

Shakespeare's The Tempest isn't an ideal choice for the musical stage. The Bard's strengths are his gripping stories and elegant language, and The Tempest is not as plot-driven as his other classics. It offers little in the way of action or progressive movement, a deficiency that's overcome by Shakespeare's poetic imagery.

Yet the creators of this opera benched the Shakespearian language. Iambic pentameter, librettist Meredith Oakes explained, was too difficult to set to music. Instead Oakes gave us a succession of rhyming couplets like "Have mercy / I'm thirsty."

That reminds me of Chuck Berry's "Good golly / Miss Molly," with one critical difference: Berry's line actually rhymes; "mercy" and "thirsty" don't.

(I'm not just picking nits here. Oakes's libretto abounds in inexact rhymes, like "Fearful story/ I'm so sorry," and "Don't be angry/ I'm so happy.")

I think Oakes underestimated the talents of composer Adès. That clever man could have found a way; he knows how to invent unusual rhythmic patterns and tonalities.

Soprano's challenge

What renders the stage play immortal is its portrait of a man dealing with a loss of his powers. Shakespeare suggests how to gracefully give up your magic, or your career, or your life. But this opera subordinates that theme to glitz and magic tricks. Prospero's art is said (in Shakespeare's text) to be wondrous and beautiful; in this adaptation it seemed mean and vengeful.

The score does sport some wondrous features. Adès created a unique high-soprano role in the high-spirited Ariel, which required Audrey Luna to sing repeated F's and G's above high C as her voice skipped and jumped in the stratosphere. She never descended to a normal soprano fach (or register), just as her feet rarely touched the floor.

Ariel's music is the most distinctive thing in the score. Audrey Luna tossed off these high notes accurately, even if her words couldn't be understood.

This opera is best seen on a big HD screen, where the audience can read the words— although it was distracting to see Luna's facial grimaces close-up. In the opera house you must constantly lower your gaze to read the text on the back of the seat in front of you. As for listening on radio— forget about it.

Contrast with Wozzeck

Adès displayed a rich orchestral palette, especially in the opening storm music. The primitive Caliban had a poignant aria in Act II, and a plaintive valedictory, touchingly sung by Alan Oke. The soliloquies for Prospero were strongly proclaimed by Simon Keenlyside. Isabel Leonard sang with lovely mezzo sound as Miranda and Alek Shrader was her sweet, youthful suitor, Ferdinand.

The composer inventively mixed modern atonality with old-style passacaglias. But how many people really care that Alban Berg's masterpiece, Wozzeck, includes passacaglias, a triple fugue, and inventions and variations on a six-note chord? Wozzeck endures for the emotionality of its music. The Tempest places more value on technique than on heart.

Middle-aged and tattooed

Robert Lepage's staging had its moments. He set the play inside the La Scala opera house in Milan, which can be justified because Prospero was the exiled Duke of Milan. Then, too, an opera house is a magical place.

But this conceit imposed an unnecessary layer between the audience and the island where the action takes place, and it distanced us from the characters. The best individual scene found Ariel spinning on a chandelier while roiling waters swirled below her during the tempestuous opening storm.

The costumes and makeup were strange. Prospero was a middle-aged man covered with body tattoos and wearing bling, causing onlookers to recoil from rather than bond with him. And it was preposterous to see the survivors of a shipwreck dolled up in freshly pressed uniforms with sashes and medallions. When did a dry cleaner open on the island?