Verdi's "Masked Ball' at the Met

Most critics greeted the Met's new production of A Masked Ball with praise for the singing and catcalls for the production. The Inquirer's David Patrick Stearns even opened his review with, "Well, the singing was good."

I'd put it the other way around. The singing had its great moments, but disappointing ones as well. This may be today's "new normal," but it fell short of operatic Golden Age standards.

On the other hand, director David Alden's controversial staging offered many innovations to this fact-based story, based on the assassination of King Gustavus III of Sweden by Count Ankerstrom in 1792. Some of his novelties were more effective than others.

Three gripping scenes

Alden created memorable moments when stark sets and detailed acting combined to produce compelling theater: the gripping early scene where Ulrica the fortune-teller predicts the king's murder; the first scene of the last act, when the count, his wife Amelia and two conspirators confront each other in a claustrophobic room in Ankerstrom's home; and the finale, which was a fantasy-like masked ball. These three settings were rendered even more dramatic by the use of deep shadows.

Arden brought out detailed back-stories about the conspirators, played by Keith Miller and David Crawford. He also revealed unaccustomed facets of the fortune-teller. Ulrica was a real historic figure who employed a network of informers in the capitol to reinforce her predictions (she was in fact interrogated about the assassination after it took place).

Icarus figure?

Two other Alden twists proved less successful.

First, the director transplanted the action, costumes and furniture into the 1930s. Sweden still had a monarch at that time, but the idea that he could rule as autocratically as Gustav seems preposterous. Nor did the updating bring any advantages; it seemed a gimmick for gimmickry's sake.

Second, a copy of the painting The Fall of Icarus, by Merry-Joseph Blondel (1781-1853), was hung on the king's wall and re-appeared throughout the production. The reference was emphasized by dressing the king's page with wings.

Arden has said that he sees Gustavus as an "Icarus figure." Perhaps— but the trouble with Icarus was that he flew too close to the sun. The king in Verdi's opera merely wants to get too close to his friend's wife. Gustavus was a fun-loving man who felt that he could get away with almost anything. It's a fatal flaw, to be sure, but he's no latter-day Icarus.

Improving on history

Verdi's opera provided an ending that improved on history: The king, though yearning for Amelia, never slept with her; and the king resisted temptation by writing an order that gave Ankerstrom a promotion and sent him and his wife to a foreign post. When the king lay dying, he pardoned all the conspirators.

No other of his operas, save, perhaps Don Carlo, offers so many grand opportunities and so many meaty parts, and all of them must be well cast or the balance of the opera falters.

As for the vocalists here, Stephanie Blythe was a spectacular Ulrica. She used her solid voice with style in her one and only scene. Dmitri Hvorostovsky also sang beautifully and provided a charismatic presence. His famous baritone aria, "Eri tu," deservedly brought the house down.

Crooner's voice

Marcelo Ólvarez, as the king, bore the largest burden, with many taxing arias from the first scene to the last. The Argentine tenor acquitted himself well, with good coloring and sensitivity, although his lyric voice lacked heft at the low end and brilliance at the high. He crooned the part appealingly, but his voice thinned out for the big moments.

By contrast, the late Richard Tucker lacked a huge voice, but when he hit climactic high notes he focused them so you felt pinging vibrations bouncing off the ceiling and the back walls. And Tucker's brother-in-law, Jan Peerce, combined clarion high notes with warm soulful low ones.

I know I'm beginning to sound like the old-timers who used to sit next to me say, "You should have heard so-and-so do this!" But the truth is that Sondra Radvanovsky's work as the lead soprano left much to be desired. Zinka Milanov in the 1950s and Birgit Nilsson in the 1960s brought much more power to the role of the love-torn Amelia.

Radvanovsky's shortcomings

This power is crucial, for Amelia's voice needs to soar over all the ensembles. Radvanovsky lacked the dark richness of Milanov and the steely cutting edge of Nilsson.

She failed to shape her big aria— "Ma, dall'arido stelo divulsa" ("But, from this dry-stemmed plant"), at the start of Act II— into the dramatic scene that Verdi intended. Instead it came across as a lovely song, not the shattering high drama that it can be.

Although Radvanovsky started her career as a mezzo (albeit a light lyric one) her voice is weak at the bottom of her scale, lacking chest or guts. Blythe, a contralto, could sing that aria better, I'll bet.

Throughout, Radvanovsky demonstrated intelligent phrasing, but her vibrato persistently expanded to a tremolo, or tremble. This approach may have befitted her pathetic situation, but it marred the Verdian musical line.

What's the hurry?

In the fifth lead role, Kathleen Kim sang pertly as the king's page, Oscar, as she coped gamely with her silly costume with wings.

Conductor Fabio Luisi rushed the orchestra headlong through dramatic scenes, lacking the lilt that James Levine used to impart and totally missing the fire and crackle that Toscanini brought to this opera. The chords were not as incisive, the silences between chords not as pregnant.

Matthew Diamond directed effectively for TV, neatly mixing close-up shots with perspectives of the wide sets.