MONDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2010 OPERA REVIEW Was it cast for movie theaters?


Met’s ‘Das Rheingold’ may look big, but live, it sounded rather small


by Anne Midgette If you watched “Das Rhein-


gold” from the Metropolitan Op- era in a movie theater via live si- mulcast Saturday afternoon, I’d be willing to bet that you heard some very pretty singing. You might even have been puzzled at the end about why Loge, the god of fire, got booed, since the sing- er who played him, Richard Croft, sang particularly prettily. Let’s forget, for a moment, the question of whether “pretty” singing has any place in a Wag- ner opera — Wagner, after all, ad- vocated bel canto technique. Let’s talk about what the opera sounded like when you attended live. I was in the opera house for the performance, and I can tell you why Croft got booed: I could barely hear him, even from prime orchestra seats. He wasn’t alone. The three Rhinemaidens were lovely, and small. The god-brothers Froh (Adam Diegel) and Donner (Dwayne Croft, Richard’s broth- er) tried to pump out as much sound as possible, with varying degrees of success; as Erda, Patri- cia Bardon forced a hoot into her voice by trying to turn a midsize instrument into the stentorian voice of prophecy. Even Bryn Ter- fel, the star bass-baritone who is finally taking what would seem to be a natural step into the role of the head god Wotan, sounded at times almost pedestrian (though I bet he was plenty im- pressive in the movie theater). My theory: This “Rheingold”


was, at least in part, cast for the simulcast, which evens out vocal size and favors smaller voices that are easier to record — and, of course, attractive looks. There were, to be sure, a couple of real Wagner voices onstage — Steph- anie Blythe, a force of nature, as Fricka, and Eric Owens in a show-stealing turn as an Alber- ich who sounded more like Wo- tan than Wotan often did. Wendy Bryn Harmer was also very good as Freia, and Gerhard Siegel made a strong Mime. They car- ried the afternoon — for those who heard them live. This wasn’t supposed to be the


story of this “Rheingold,” the opening salvo in the Met’s new “Ring” cycle by the Canadian di- rector Robert Lepage that opened the company’s season on Sept. 27. Before the opening, the focus was on the multimillion- dollar, state-of-the-art, high-tech set, involving projections and other forms of stage wizardry that would bring this mythical


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C3 THEATER REVIEW


Olney’s ‘Misalliance,’ missing in action


by Nelson Pressley PHOTOS BY CRAIG RUTTLE/ASSOCIATED PRESS


BIG STAGE, SMALL VOICES: Above, the towering set. Left, Stephanie Blythe fared well, but Richard Croft could barely be heard.


production.


story of gods and dwarves and a magical golden Ring to life: the definitive artistic statement of the “new Met” of the Peter Gelb administration. Alas, the biggest story to arise from Lepage’s pro- duction so far is the fact that the rainbow bridge, across which the gods walk into their new castle of Valhalla at the end of the opera, didn’t work on opening night. It worked on Saturday, but, like most of Lepage’s other effects, it was a mountain moving to give birth to a mouse. Put aside, again, the question


of whether you were impressed by the lumbering set, made up of sets of panels like piano keys, twisting and turning, with many a creak and a clank, to represent now the undulating surface of the river Rhine, now a flight of stairs descending into Nibel- heim, now the forbidding exteri- or of Valhalla, while body dou- bles appear, time and again, to walk straight up vertical walls (evidently Lepage’s favorite stage effect). The real question is what came across dramatically — and in the house, at least, the answer was stale white bread. Lepage’s “Ring” is utterly tra- ditional: All the characters are


taken at face value, with little ef- fort to delve beneath the surface. All of the creative energy went into the set. The three Rhinemaidens are mermaids, swimming underwa- ter (with projections of bubbles) before settling on the pebbly riv- erbed (with projections of peb- bles); but their interaction with Alberich is restricted to sitting calmly, sometimes flipping at him with their tails, and making unhappy, ineffectual noises when he steals their gold by walking offstage with it in a shopping bag. For all the wonders of high-


tech, Lepage’s giants, Fasolt (the woofy Franz-Josef Selig) and Fafner (the more authoritative Hans-Peter König) looked like a cross between the Geico cave- men and the Vikings in that ad for the Capital One credit card (are these references to TV a blow for pop culture?). Nor, when the goddess Freia is ran- somed for a hoard of gold meant to cover her entirely, could Lep- age think of anything better to do than sticking her in a hammock and covering her with plastic gold armor. This looks awfully provincial for a state-of-the-art


Among the saddest wastes of resources is Terfel, who showed, at some moments, that he has the seeds of a great Wotan in him. Lepage just didn’t help him find it. Terfel does best when he has something clear to play; and when he knew what Wotan wanted, he burst out with the best of them, demanding that Er- da stay and reveal the meaning of her prophecy, or formally, re- gally escorting his wife, Fricka, into their new home. But for long stretches, he was left alone on- stage, looking, in François St.- Aubin’s costumes, much like the singer Meat Loaf (a resemblance frequently commented on after opening night), and his singing reflected his lack of direction. The telecast began around 15 minutes late as a result of trans- mission issues related to sun- spots that threatened to interfere with the live broadcast. This only made things more difficult for James Levine, though he con- ducted with assurance and his wonted beauty. Levine, 67, who has been plagued with health woes for the last few years and looked physically tottery at the curtain call, has resumed active duty this fall both at the Met and at the Boston Symphony Orches- tra, where he is music director. He led a concert on Friday after- noon in Boston, came to New York on Saturday to conduct “Rheingold” at 1 p.m. and was back in Boston in time for an 8 p.m. performance. It’s unfortu- nate that this physical feat drew more attention, speculation and interest than anything Lepage, with his flashy, expensive set, ac- complished.


midgettea@washpost.com


Andrew Lloyd Webber sent a chandelier diving to the stage in “The Phantom of the Opera,” the Greeks had gods swan down from the heavens, and in 1909, George Bernard Shaw wrote that midway through his “Misalliance,” an air- plane should crash into the action. Make that “inaction,” for al- though the comedy pits classes, genders and (most especially) gen- erations against each other, it’s a slippery thing, virtually free of a palpable plot. That kind of Shavi- an subversion — denying obvious narrative pleasures, whacking atti- tudes around, demanding that au- diences keep up with the sly to- and-fro — can be delightful. But Olney Theatre Center’s production is numbingly bright and yammer- ing, so the plane crash is a god- send. Shaw only called for a bit of


shattered glass to fall through the conservatory of John Tarleton, the underwear magnate whose lively daughter, Hypatia, is slated to marry a prancing ninny named Bentley Summerhays. (This is mis- alliance No. 1, of many to follow.) Though it’s hardly the last word in theatrical spectacle, John Going’s production does better than just sprinkle shards for the aeronau- tical collapse, which marks the en- trance of a Polish acrobat named Lina Szczepanowska.


Lina and the handsome pilot she drops in with, Joseph Percival, shake things up in the staid con- servatory, and for a moment, the production comes alive. Actors sit still and lean forward as if they’re not sure what they’re going to hear next from the strapping, inde- pendent Lina (swaggeringly played by Andrea Cirie), whereas before — and soon after — the cast acts as if every line is a splendid epigram. It has frequently been argued


that the characters in “Misalli- ance” (originally dubbed “a debate in one sitting”) sound suspiciously like Shaw himself, but of course that’s no way to play it. The com-


edy really is filled with distinctive characters; the buoyant Tarleton and his reserved fellow eminence Lord Summerhays — Bentley’s rueful father — are woefully hu- miliated by much younger (and dissimilar) women, for instance. But the dialogue is volleyed with such sterile polish that all hope and pain are abandoned. Likewise, when a confused working-class radical sneaks into Tarleton’s portable Turkish bath to further muddy the parent-child waters, the intrusion doesn’t make much of a change. Throughout, Shaw’s lines have the capacity to provoke and bruise, prompting in- timates to call each other “beast” (for better and for worse). Yet for a gang so caught up in persuasions and reversals, the dynamic seldom shifts from the same high, arid plain. James Wolk’s wide conservatory


set almost feels like a stadium; it rises level after level and oddly strands the actors, who scamper busily about the vast room with- out a lot of purpose. The script rings with some of Shaw’s repeat- ed themes — “Heartbreak House” and “Man and Superman” are among the plays Shavians may find themselves ruminating on — yet the performance suffers from a rare case of pointless velocity. It’s as if the artists aren’t utterly sure what to do with this mischievous comedy, so everyone tries to out- run it.


style@washpost.com Pressley is a freelance writer. Misalliance


by George Bernard Shaw. Directed by John Going. Costumes, Liz Covey;


lighting, Dennis Parichy; sound design, G.W. Rodriguez. With Dudley Knight,


Alex Podulke, Joel Reuben Ganz, Drew Kopas, Anne Stone, Patricia Hurley, Matthew McGloin, Joe Vincent. About 2 hours 20 minutes. Through Oct. 24 at Olney Theatre Center, 2001 Olney- Sandy Spring Rd., Olney. Call 301-924-3400 or visit www. olneytheatre.org.


STAN BAROUH


AT OLNEY: Patricia Hurley as Hypatia and Joe Vincent as Tarleton in a stagnant rendition of George Bernard Shaw’s “Misalliance.”


THEATER REVIEW


Yon ‘Caesar’ has a lean and female look


by Celia Wren


Like Arnold Schwarzenegger in his early gubernatorial days, the characters in “Julius Caesar” take a dim view of girly men. Cas- sius gripes that Rome has be- come “womanish” and mocks Caesar for resembling “a sick girl.” Brutus dismissively equates cowards with “the melting spirits of women.” Exhortations to great- er virility fly thick and fast. Given this macho posturing,


you’d think a staging of the play with an all-female cast could reg- ister as coyly self-conscious. But director Lise Bruneau has smart- ly engineered an all-distaff-side “Julius Caesar” that doesn’t smack of nudging gimmickry. Brisk, focused and boasting sev- eral strong performances, this engaging Taffety Punk Theatre Company offering speaks less about its own casting ploy (thank goodness) than it does about ur- gent contemporary matters: the power of spin, the energy of pop- ulism, the clash between emotion and reason in politics. The achievement is all the more remarkable given that Bru- neau’s intimate, visually spare production includes a stage-wide mirror, positioned just behind the ziggurat of black risers that is the other major set element. (Daniel Flint handled the scenic execution.) The actors — who wear black boots and modern, black streetwise garb — some- times gaze at the mirror, turning their backs to the audience with- out concealing their faces. Not solely a gender-referencing con-


ceit, the mirror suits a drama with characters who talk about flattery and scrutinize appear- ances for partisan intent. “You cannot see yourself / So well as by reflection,” Cassius (Jes- sica Lefkow) observes in Act 1, spinning Bru- tus (Esther Williamson) around to face the glass. Sometimes flooded with red light, Bru- neau’s Romans scheme, fret and battle to the in- termittent accompani- ment of punk-beat un- derscoring and other eerie music. (Chris Cur- tis and Taffety Punk Ar- tistic Director Marcus Kyd, respectively, de- signed the lighting and sound.) The performers — some of whom appeared in Taffety Punk’s previ- ous “Riot Grrrls” all-female Shakespeares (2008’s “Romeo and Juliet” and 2009’s “Measure


for Measure”) — have mastered a confident masculine gait and posture. The swaggering physi- cality, in interplay with the vaguely skinhead-like attire, helps ratchet up the tension. (The line-flub- bing that occasionally tripped up the press performance was no doubt a temporary, early-in-the-run prob- lem.)


Jessica Lefkow as the sly Cassius.


With her fierce ex- pression and quietly cocky strut, Lefkow is particularly compel- ling as a wily Cassius — one who truly has the “lean and hungry look” that Caesar (Tiernan


Madorno) notices. Rahaleh Nass- ri is the production’s other trump card: A calm intensity and a cool- ly modulating rhetorical style brand her Mark Antony as a sca- rily competent statesman and


manipulator. The character’s matter-of-fact tone, as he decrees that his own nephew “shall not live,” chills. Williamson’s Brutus, by con-


trast, seems pallid, and the ac- tress’s tendency to rush her lines doesn’t help. Admittedly, to take a charitable view, this Brutus’s lack of magnetism supports the play’s suggestion that demagogu- ery trounces rationalism on the civic playing field. (Brutus would not be a good Exhibit A for Jon Stewart’s Rally to Restore Sani- ty.) In smaller roles, Madorno apt- ly brings a slightly comic rock-


LookWho’sComing to the


star arrogance to Caesar; Su- zanne Richard nails the person- alities of Decius, a quick-thinking conspirator, and Artemidorus, a stuffily perturbed Caesar sup- porter; and Emma Jaster is downright spooky as the Sooth- sayer (“Beware the Ides of March!”).


Other performances are less persuasive (all the actors field multiple roles), and the fight scenes look extremely fake. Of course, if your attention wanders, you can always look at yourself in the mirror: After all, this tale of Roman politics and power strug- gle is also a tale about us, now.


style@washpost.com Wren is a freelance writer. Julius Caesar


by William Shakespeare. Directed by Lise Bruneau; costume design, Scott Hammar; fight consulting, Lorraine


Ressegger; weapons consulting, Paul Gallagher; voice and text coach,


Kimberly Gilbert. With Toni Rae Brotons, Rana Kay, Katie Molinaro and Abby Wood. About 21⁄2


hours. Through Oct.


23 at the Capitol Hill Arts Workshop, 545 Seventh St. SE. Call 800-838-3006 or visit www.taffetypunk.com.


RACHAELRAY


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